^Of  COLLEGIUM    r>>^ 
BOSTON1ENSE 


In  Memory  of 
REV.  TERENCE  L.  CONNOLLY,  S.J. 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 


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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Lm 

TORONTO 


THE 
SOUL  OF  IRELAND 


BY 

W.  J.  LOCKINGTON,  S.J. 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON 


jf2eto  gorfe 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1927 


Ail  rights  reserved 


332514 


Copyright,  1920, 

BT  the  macmillan  company 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  January,  1920 


DASg 

BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRA&Y 

CHESTNUT  ■■■:■■       MC^  i:?'6; 


TO 
MARY  MYDEN  DHEELISH 

MOTHER  OF 
THE  MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 


CONTENTS 

AND  SOMETHING  IN  THE  NATURE  OF  A 
PRELUDE 


PAGE 

Introduction  by  G.  K.  Chesterton xi 

The  resurrection  of  Ireland,  of  which  Father  Lock- 
ington  writes  here  with  so  much  spirit  and  eloquence, 
is  really  a  historical  event  that  has  the  appearance 
of  a  miracle.  .  .  .  Many  Englishmen  do  not  see  the 
point;  simply  because  many  Englishmen  are  in  this 
matter  quite  ignorant.  .  .  .  They  do  not  happen  to 
know  how  utterly  Ireland  was  crushed;  with  what 
finality  and  fundamental  oblivion  the  nation  was 
once  numbered  with  the  dead. 


Author's  Preface xvii 

Once  let  the  heart  of  the  people  of  England  be 
touched  by  the  truth  regarding  Ireland,  their  sense 
of  justice  will  ensure  that  Ireland  will  take  proper 
place,  as  sister  with  sister,  and  no  longer  be  the  Cin- 
derella of  the  Empire. 


CHAPTER  I 
Ireland's  Secret 


The  divine   gift   of  faith,   that   Saint   Patrick   threw 
like   a    white   mantle    over   the   whole    land,   covers   it 
to-day   as   pure   and   untarnished   as  when   he   walked 
the  earth.  .  .  .  All   prayers  of  His  loved  and  loving 
people. 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER    II  pAGE 

Life  in  the  City 8 

I  saw  them  in  their  poor  homes,  and  wondered  at 
the  vivid  faith  that  gilded  and  ennobled  their  pov- 
erty and  trials. 

CHAPTER  III 
Life  in  the  Country 21 

They  are  a  reserved  people,  reticent  with  stran- 
gers. .  .  .  They  have  a  quiet,  gentle  dignity  that  is 
all  their  own,  and  a  native  refinement  that  is  remark- 
able. 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Exodus 33 

Pestilence  and  Famine  lay  like  a  pall  over  Ireland 
and  from  beneath  the  blackness  her  poor  children 
fled  in  terror.  This  exodus  was  the  scattering  broad- 
cast of  a  crucified  nation. 

CHAPTER  V 
The  Mass  Rock 44 

There  are  many  glorious  monuments  to-day  in  Ire- 
land that  speak  eloquently  of  her  sufferings  in  those 
dark  days  ...  to  me  by  far  the  most  touching  is  the 
granite  block,  a  broad  table  of  gray  stone,  with  the 
sacred  name  of  Jesus  carved  deep;  that  silent  table 
...  the  Mass  Rock. 

CHAPTER  VI 
Christmas  in  Ireland 55 

On  Christmas  Eve  a  multitude  of  new  stars  blazes 
from  coast  to  coast  in  Ireland  .  .  .  the  great  Christ- 
mas candle  shining  in  the  window  of  every  home 
lighting  the  land  for  the  angels  to  guide  the  Christ 
Child  thither. 

viii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VII  page 

Month  of  Mary 64 

This  wealth  of  spiritual  love,  that  wells  up  and 
overflows  in  Irish  hearts,  keeps  all  earthly  love  pure 
and  good.  Woman's  spiritual  work  is  understood, 
Mary  stands  over  by  her  side,  and  she  is  held  in  deep 
reverence.  This  high  ideal  of  womanhood  has  kept 
the  nation  faithful  and  strong. 

CHAPTER  VIII 
Corpus  Christi  in  Ireland 74 

I  stole  a  glance  at  my  Saxon  friend  as  we  were 
passing  that  cabin  door  .  .  .  openly  and  unashamed 
he  was  weeping.  "  I  have  never  seen  anything  like 
it,"  he  said  to  me  afterwards.  "  Faith,  it's  not  Faith, 
but  actual  vision  that  God  has  blessed  these  people 
with." 

CHAPTER  IX 
The  Nuns  of  Ireland 85 

These  joyous-hearted  women  have  sweetened  and 
made  endurable  by  their  presence  that  former  monu- 
ment of  ineptitude,  the  poorhouse.  .  .  .  But  not  in  Ire- 
land alone  do  they  labor,  they  carry  the  torch  of  faith 
to  every  land.  .  .  .  The  whole  world  is  their  home, 
and  all  mankind  their  brother. 

CHAPTER  X 

SOGGARTH   AROON 97 

The  high  sea-cliff  saw  them  bound  back  to  back, 
and  pushed  to  death  on  the  black  rocks  below ;  trapped 
in  the  Mass  Cave,  they  died  in  a  reek  of  smoke;  sold 
to  the  slave  trader  and  transported,  they  worked  till 
death  under  the  lash  of  their  owner;  from  end  to 
end  of  the  land  their  bodies  swung  in  the  shadow  of 
the  "  Priest  tree."  Every  gallows  in  the  country 
shook  as  priest  after  priest  climbed  the  ladders  at  the 
bidding  of  their  would-be  exterminators. 

ix 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XI  pAGE 

Mothers  of  Ireland no 

Besides  those  mothers  who  have  given  their  chil- 
dren for  God's  work,  other  mothers  there  are,  parted 
from  their  children  by  the  accidents  of  life,  who  sit  at 
home  wearily  waiting  for  the  sound  of  a  step  that 
never  falls  .  .  .  when  darkness  instead  of  light  is  sent 
to  them  across  the  sea.  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XII 
Martyrdom  of  Ireland 122 

Through  all  this  horror  of  bloodshed  and  oppres- 
sion, one  main  end  was  aimed  at  —  the  extirpation  of 
the  Catholic  Faith. 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Irish  Ideals 136 

Those  who  try  to  measure  the  progress  of  this  peo- 
ple by  earthly  standards  find  qualities  as  immeasura- 
ble as  the  fourth  dimension,  and  actions  that  nullify 
ordinary  human  wisdom,  for  they  square  only  with 
the  infinite. 

CHAPTER  XIV 
Irish  Joyousness 151 

Religion    properly  understood    and    practiced    is    a 

spring    of    unending  joyousness.  .  .  .  Ireland    is    the 

only  country  that  has  a  musical  instrument  as  the  na- 
tional emblem. 

CHAPTER  XV 
Triumph  of  Ireland 166 

The  Catholic  Faith,  as  potent  in  the  twentieth  as  in 
the  third  century,  is  the  secret  of  Ireland's  triumph, 
and  it  will  be  the  secret  of  her  final  glory.  This  has 
not  made  her  less  loyal  to  worldly  authority,  but  on 
the  contrary  has  made  her  loyal  with  a  selfless  loy- 
alty so  rare  that  it  can  be  understood  only  by  those 
who  know  the  Catholic  heart  of  Ireland. 
X 


INTRODUCTION 
By  G.  K.  Chesterton 

It  would  be  difficult  to  murder  a  man  in  a  fit  of 
absence  of  mind;  still  more  difficult  to  bury  him  in 
the  garden  in  the  same  abstracted  and  automatic 
mood.  And  if  the  dead  man  got  up  out  of  the  grave 
and  walked  into  the  house  a  week  afterwards,  the 
absent-minded  murderer  might  well  feel  constrained 
to  collect  some  of  his  wandering  thoughts,  and  take 
some  notice  of  the  event.  But  communal  a-ction, 
though  real  and  responsible  enough,  is  never  quite  so 
vivid  as  personal  action.  And  very  many  respecta- 
ble English  people  are  quite  unconscious  that  this  has 
been  the  exact  history  of  their  own  relations  with  the 
Irish  people.  The  Englishman  has  never  realized 
the  enormity  and  simplicity  of  his  own  story  and  its 
sequel.  It  was  like  something  done  in  a  dream; 
because  when  he  did  it  he  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else  or  trying  to  think  of  something  else. 
That  the  slayer  should  try  to  forget  the  body  he 
has  buried  may  appear  natural;  that  he  should  fail 
to  know  it  again,  when  it  came  walking  down  the 
street,  will  appear  more  singular.  A  cynic  might  say 
that  England  need  not  be  concerned  about  having 
killed  Ireland;  but  might  well  feel  some  concern 
about  having  failed  to  kill  her.      But  cynics  are  sel- 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

dom  subtle  enough  to  be  realists;  and  the  truer  way 
of  stating  it  is  that  the  whole  atmosphere  of  modern 
Europe,  and  especially  of  modern  England,  has  been 
unfavorable  to  the  telling  of  a  plain  tale.  Euphe- 
misms and  excuses  are  so  elaborate  that  it  is  hard 
for  a  man  to  find  out  what  has  really  happened,  even 
what  has  happened  to  him.  It  is  hard  for  him  to  say 
in  plain  words  what  has  "been  done,  even  when  he 
has  done  it  himself. 

The  resurrection  of  Ireland,  of  which  Father  Lock- 
ington  writes  here  with  so  much  spirit  and  eloquence, 
is  really  a  historical  event  that  has  the  appearance 
of  a  miracle.  That  is,  it  is  one  of  a  class  of  undis- 
puted facts,  not  actually  in  form  supernatural,  but 
so  unique  as  almost  to  force  any  one,  however  rela- 
tionalistic,  to  an  explanation  at  least  transcendental. 
If  the  Christian  faith  is  not  meant  in  some  fashion 
to  revive  and  be  reunited  in  Europe,  I  for  one  can 
make  no  mortal  sense  o»f  what  has  happened  in  Ire- 
land. If  the  Catholic  creeds  are  not  to  survive,  I 
cannot  imagine  why  Ireland  has  survived.  Many 
Englishmen  do  not  see  the  point;  simply  because 
many  Englishmen  are  in  this  matter  quite  ignorant; 
especially  well-educated  Englishmen.  They  do  not 
happen  to  know  how  utterly  Ireland  was  crushed; 
with  what  finality  and  fundamental  oblivion  the  na- 
tion was  one  numbered  with  the  dead.  A  man  in  the 
middle  of  the  Age  of  Reason,  the  enlightened  and 
humanitarian  eighteenth  century,  would  have  been 
more  astounded  by  the  present  prosperity  of  the 
Catholic  peasantry  than  by  a  revival  of  the  commerce 


INTRODUCTION 

of  Carthage.  It  would  have  been  to  him,  I  will  not 
say  like  the  return  of  King  James,  but  like  the  return 
of  King  Arthur.  It  would  have  been  incredible. 
He  would  as  soon  have  expected  to  hear  that  At- 
lantis was  really  re-arisen  from  the  sea,  trading  and 
making  treaties  with  America,  as  to  hear  that  this 
other  island  in  the  Atlantic  was  increasing  in  agricul- 
tural wealth  while  retaining  its  ancient  superstitions. 
The  transfiguration  happens  to  have  been  spread 
over  two  or  three  generations,  so  that  the  shock  of 
it  is  broken;  the  individuals  who  saw  the  death  are 
not  those  who  see  the  rising  from  the  dead.  But  to 
any  one  who  has  learned  just  enough  of  history  to 
know  that  it  consists  of  human  beings,  to  any  one 
with  enough  imaginative  patience  to  follow  a  story 
clearly  from  start  to  finish,  the  story  has  been  as  sim- 
ple and  astonishing  as  the  plain  parable  of  the  corpse 
in  the  garden  with  which  I  began  this  brief  note.  A 
working  way  of  putting  it  is  to  say  that  sixty  years 
ago  English  newspapers  talked  hopefully  of  there  be- 
ing no  Irish  Catholics  in  a  few  years;  and  there  are 
now  more  than  six  millions  in  the  United  States 
alone.  In  a  word,  the  one  real  crime  that  England 
ever  attempted  has  most  fortunately  failed;  and  not 
only  England  but  also  Europe  has  now  to  deal  with 
a  certain  recognizable  religious  civilization,  which 
men  may  like  or  dislike,  fear  or  favor,  but  which  is 
as  solid  a  fact  as  France.  Even  those  who  cannot 
share  Father  Lockington's  natural  enthusiasm  for 
the  theological  survival  will  be  wise  to  note  all  the 
facts  he  can  adduce  about  the  social  success.     Judged 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

from  a  wholly  detached  and  rationalized  standpoint, 
the  reality  remains:  that  the  one  people  in  Western 
Europe  which  has  taken  the  old  form  of  the  Chris- 
tian Religion  quite  seriously,  enduring  persecution 
from  without  and  asceticism  from  within,  has  before 
our  very  eyes  turned  a  sudden  corner  and  stepped 
into  a  place  in  the  sun.  We  can  make  what  we  will 
of  this  fact;  but  it  is  there'. 

There  are  but  a  few  of  these  historical  events 
which  while  natural  in  mode  seem  to  be  almost  su- 
pernatural in  meaning.  One  of  them  is  the  mysteri- 
ous international  position  of  the  Jews.  Another 
was  the  historical  mission  of  Joan  of  Arc.  And 
there  goes  with  that  great  name  a  certain  hint  of 
hope  and  consolation  even  in  the  case  still  at  issue: 
the  long  and  tragic  entanglement  of  England  and 
Ireland.  The  English  were  the  enemies  of  Joan  of 
Arc;  but  it  is  quite  inadequate  to  say  that  they  are 
not  longer  her  enemies;  they  are  all  her  quite  enthu- 
siastic admirers.  They  are,  if  possible,  even  more 
enthusiastic  than  the  French.  I  do  not  despair  of 
the  day  when  the  other  senseless  misunderstanding 
shall  pass  in  the  same  fashion;  and  a  patriotic  Eng- 
lishman shall  no  longer  be  expected  to  feel  a  preju- 
dice in  the  one  case  than  in  the  other.  I  hope  to  see 
the  day  when  he  will  no  more  dream  of  denying  that 
anybody  is  oppressed  in  Ireland  than  that  anybody 
was  burnt  at  Rouen.  He  will  not  treat  the  former 
torture  as  more  trivial  because  it  lasted  longer;  or 
as  more  obscure  because  it  affected  many  more  peo- 
ple.    He  will  do  what  he  does  with  tragedy  of  the 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

fifteenth  century;  he  will  prefer  to  prove  that  he  is 
now  generous,  rather  than  that  he  was  always  just. 
Horrible  as  is  the  history,  I  know  my  own  people 
are  capable  of  such  generosity,  and  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  write  anywhere  on  this  subject  without 
seeking  to  arouse  it. 

G.  K.  Chesterton. 


XV 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

The  splendid  spiritual  course  that  Ireland  has 
held  down  the  centuries  and  through  the  nations 
is  in  great  part  unseen  or  uncomprehended  by 
multitudes.  To  those  who  know  not  the  strength 
of  her  Faith  she  is  almost  an  unknown  land,  and  the 
meaning  of  her  history  is  almost  completely  mis- 
apprehended by  them. 

An  attempt  is  made  in  the  following  pages  to 
show,  be  it  ever  so  inadequately,  the  true  inward- 
ness of  the  wonderful  progress  of  Ireland. 

I  have  written  of  things  as  I  saw  them  during 
a  residence  of  many  years  in  Ireland  and  during  a 
life  of  close  contact  with  her  children  abroad. 

To  those  who  would  say  that  I  have  spoken 
mainly  of  the  bright  side  of  Irish  life  and  have  left 
untouched  its  failings,  I  answer  that  to  say  that  the 
Irish  have  faults  is  only  to  say  that  they  are  human, 
and  that  whatever  faults  may  be  theirs  have  been 
dilated  upon  by  writers  innumerable,  and  magnified 
beyond  all  truth  and  justice.  Ireland  has  suffered 
much  at  the  hands  of  these  writers,  who  can  claim 
kinship  with  the  sharp-billed  vulture,  that  with 
far-seeing  eyes  circles  over  league  upon  league  of 
Nature's  fairest  glories,  seeking  the  wavering  thread 
of  vapor  that  tells  of  decay,  and  settling  there  to 
rend. 

[  xvii  ] 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE 

It  is  hoped  that  this  modest  contribution  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  true  Ireland  will  help  to  remove 
some  of  the  false  views  so  often  promulgated  in 
regard  to  Irish  history  and  Irish  character,  views 
which  tend  to  perpetuate  the  age-long  misunder- 
standing between  Ireland  and  her  sister  England. 

Certainly  a  sympathetic  understanding  between 
these  two  peoples  is  of  the  highest  importance  for 
the  welfare  and  happiness  of  the  Empire. 

It  has  been  well  said  that  the  heart  sees  farther 
than  the  eye.  Once  let  the  heart  of  the  people  of 
England  be  touched  by  the  truth  regarding  Ireland, 
their  sense  of  justice  will  insure  that  Ireland  will 
take  her  proper  place,  as  sister  with  sister,  and  no 
longer  be  the  Cinderella  of  the  Empire. 

W.    J.    LOCKINGTON,    S.J. 


[  xviii  ] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 


CHAPTER  I 

IRELAND 

TRELAND.  What  a  history  of  fearless  fighting 
*  for  God  and  country  that  name  records !  It  tells 
of  patient  suffering  strengthened  by  glorious  faith, 
of  days  of  triumph  unrivalled,  and  of  days  of  dark- 
ness when  to  love  her  and  to  love  God  was  death. 

Yet  ever  and  always  that  name  tells  of  a  nation 
loved  by  God,  and  steadfastly  loving  in  return,  mak- 
ing this  deep  love  of  Him  the  dominant  character- 
istic of  its  national  life. 

Placed  on  the  edge  of  the  Old  World,  Ireland  is 
the  outpost  of  Western  Europe.  Insignificant  in 
area,  her  power  is  world-wide  —  for  she  is  the 
mother  of  a  civilization  that  has  encircled  and  up- 
lifted the  earth.  Clad  in  beauty,  she  sits  ever  listen- 
ing to  the  voices  of  her  exiled  children  that  come  to 
her  across  the  thunder  of  the  seas. 

She  is  a  land  of  green  plain  and  blue  mountain 
and  purple  bogland;  of  deep  valleys  carpeted  with 
luscious  grass,  where  the  lazy  kine  stand  knee-deep; 
of  grassed  hills,  cut  into  squares  bv  the  dark  thorn 

[i] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

hedges  that  blossom  with  white  may  spray;  of 
cool  pine  clumps,  in  the  shade  of  which  the  cozy 
cottages  nestle.  Across  her  bosom,  running  silently 
between  hawthorn  and  willow  hedges,  the  slender 
boreens,  leafy  avenues  vibrant  with  bird-life,  go 
slipping  past  white-walled,  brown-roofed  cottages, 
set  in  lakes  of  yellow  corn.  On  they  wind  over  low- 
banked  streamlets,  that  net  the  land  with  silver 
threads,  and  run  and  join  and  flow  to  where  the 
green  of  her  fields  is  kissed  by  the  white  lips  of  the 
sea.  She  is  a  land  that  to  know  is  to  love  —  for  he 
that  knows  Ireland  always  loses  his  heart  to  her. 

One  clear  morning  in  early  spring  I  stood  on  the 
summit  of  one  of  the  highest  of  her  mountains  — 
Galteemore,  the  cloud-piercing  giant  of  the  Galtees. 
I  looked  upon  a  scene  of  exquisite  beauty.  Before 
me  lay  the  golden  vale  of  Limerick,  stretching  for 
leagues  across  to  where  the  mountains  of  Clare 
stand,  keeping  guard  on  Ireland's  western  seaboard. 
Below  them  the  sun  glistened  on  the  gray  waves 
of  the  Atlantic;  beyond  them  to  the  north,  Lough 
Derg  lay  sleeping  in  their  shadow,  and  by  their  feet, 
dividing  plain  from  mountain,  and  uniting  lake  and 
ocean,  swept  the  rolling  flood  of  the  silver  Shannon. 

To  the  south  the  mighty  mountains  of  Kerry 
fling  high  in  the  air  peaks  whose  broad  bases  are 
fringed  by  the  foam  of  the  restless  sea.  Turning  to 
the  east,  lit  by  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  I  saw  the 
fertile  plain  of  Munster,  dotted  with  villages  and 
towns,  stretch  out  to  where,  on  the  horizon,  sea  and 
sky   and  plain  meet.      There   on   the  water's   edge, 

[2] 


IRELAND 

from  Cork  to  Carnsore,  lay  Ireland's  southern 
boundary. 

Northward,  towered  bluff  Keeper  Hill,  the 
sentinel  of  central  Ireland,  looking  down  on  the 
great  plain  that  goes  sweeping  to  the  north,  past 
Cashel  of  the  kings,  past  Kilkenny  of  the  martyrs, 
on  to  where,  lost  in  the  dim  blue  of  the  bending 
sky,  the  Slieve  Blooms  spring  up  to  keep  guard  over 
the  central  plateau  of  Erin. 

It  is  a  scene  almost  unequalled  on  earth.  Poets 
have  stood  entranced  and  writers  been  lost  in  ad- 
miration of  the  beauty  that  shines  forth  on  every 
side.  Let  us  though  be  on  our  guard  and  not  be 
blinded  by  this  surface  glory  of  Ireland.  For  he 
who  sees  only  this  natural  beauty,  striking  though  it 
be,  is  as  one  who  thinks  he  gains  a  knowledge  of  the 
soul  of  his  friend  by  a  careful  study  of  the  texture 
of  his  garments. 

Men  come  to  Ireland  seeking  the  secret  of  the 
power  that  she  possesses  of  ever  holding  the  love  of 
her  children.  They  climb  her  mountains,  and  gaze 
upon  her  lakes  and  valleys  and  hills.  They  look 
upon  the  rare  beauty  of  the  bay  of  her  capital  city; 
they  rush  to  where  Derry  goes  creeping  over  the 
swelling  banks  of  the  Foyle;  they  walk  beneath  the 
towering  pines  of  Tore  Mountain,  and  their  voices 
break  the  hallowed  calm  of  Killarney.  You  will 
find  them  climbing  Ballaghbeama,  and  sketching 
the  massive  mountains  of  Kerry.  Along  her  rivers 
they  move  from  the  Corrib  to  the  Slaney  and  from 
the  Blackwater  to  the  Bann.     They  are  looking  at 

[3] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Ireland,  speaking  of  Ireland,  judging  Ireland,  and 
they  do  not  know  her  nor  understand  her. 

The  heart  of  Ireland  is  beating  strongly,  the  pulse 
of  Ireland  is  throbbing  vigorously,  but  they  hear  it 
not.  Engrossed  in  her  material  beauty,  her  gar- 
ment woven  by  God,  they  cannot  see  the  beauty  of 
the  soul  of  Ireland,  the  beauty  that  is  the  root  of  the 
strength  of  Ireland,  and  the  tie  that  binds  unbreak- 
ably  to  her  the  hearts  of  her  sons. 

Come  with  me,  dear  reader,  and  in  imagination 
stand  on  that  mountain  peak  I  spoke  of,  and  let  us 
together  seek  this  wonderful  beauty  of  the  soul  of 
Ireland. 

Turn  to  the  west.  "  What,"  I  ask  you,  "  is  it 
that  stands  gleaming  white  against  the  dark  Clare 
hills?  "  You  know  it  not!  Aye,  neither  do  those 
hurrying  aliens.  It  is  the  spire  of  the  cathedral  of 
Limerick,  flung  aloft  by  loving  Irish  hearts,  to  hold 
on  high  the  cross  of  Christ.  Look  at  the  plain  be- 
tween us  and  that  cross!  Heed  not  the  mere  nat- 
ural beauty.  What  is  it  that  you  see,  crowning 
every  hill,  and  springing  from  every  hollow,  the 
center  of  every  town  and  village?  The  same  cross 
of  Calvary,  lifted  high  by  fervent  faith. 

Here  at  your  feet,  across  the  glen  of  Aherlow, 
towers  the  spire  of  Tipperary  town,  far-famedj 
fighting  Tipperary.  Beyond  it  from  the  bosom  of 
the  plain  springs  the  slender  shaft  of  God's  home 
in  Nenagh.  Look  at  the  Rock  of  Cashel!  Cashel 
of  the  kings!  Cashel,  hallowed  by  the  presence  of 
St.    Patrick,   baptizing  her   king.      Cast  your   eyes 

[4] 


IRELAND 

southward.  That  smoke,  rising  by  the  banks  of  the 
winding  Blackwater,  comes  from  the  chimneys  of 
the  monastery  of  Mount  Melleray,  the  home  of  un- 
ceasing prayer.  Beyond,  on  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
are  the  cities  of  southern  Munster,  clustering  around 
their  churches. 

Wherever  we  turn,  to  the  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west  of  this  glorious  panorama,  stand  the 
tabernacles  of  God.  "  Behold  the  tabernacles  of 
God  with  men,  and  He  will  dwell  with  them,  and 
they  shall  be  His  people,  and  God  Himself  with 
them  shall  be  their  God."  On  every  square  mile  of 
that  plain  God  has  a  dwelling. 

And  so  it  is  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land.  Journey  to  the  Slieve  Blooms  that  you 
see  on  the  northern  horizon,  cross  to  Connemara, 
climb  the  lofty  mountains  of  Donegal,  walk  through 
the  valleys  of  Armagh  —  everywhere  you  will  see 
the  cross-crowned  spire,  telling  of  Ireland's  King, 
enthroned  below.  From  His  altar  He  rules,  watch- 
ing and  guarding,  while  the  whole  country  is  filled 
with  the  sound  of  His  praises,  a  mighty  pasan,  sung 
by  a  people  that  never  has  denied  Him  and  never 
has  forgotten  Him. 

Nor  is  this  condition  of  to-day  only.  See  that 
mighty  pillar,  springing  from  the  center  of  Lough 
Derg.  It  is  the  round  tower  of  Iniscaltra,  deserted 
and  silent  on  the  little  island  that  fourteen  hundred 
years  ago  rang  with  the  voices  of  those  who  came 
from  afar  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Columba  and  Caimin. 
Follow  the  curving  bank  of  the  Shannon  as  it 

[5] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

runs  westward,  and  the  eye  falls  upon  another  great 
column.  It  stands  on  one  of  the  reaches  of  the 
Shannon,  on  Scattery  Island.  Around  it  lie  the  ruins 
of  six  of  the  churches  of  St.  Senan. 

Turn  to  the  south,  and  there  a  third  stands  high 
on  the  hill  of  Ardmore,  a  monument  to  St.  Declan, 
a  contemporary  of  St.  Patrick.  Three  of  the  round 
towers  of  Ireland,  telling  of  the  servants  of  God  who 
gathered  at  their  bases  in  days  far  in  the  bygone 
centuries.  They  heard  the  Mass  bell  of  St.  Patrick 
and  St.  Munchin  and  St.  Declan,  and  to-day  they 
still  stand,   silent   testimonies  of  an  undying  faith. 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  power  that  ties  the  hearts 
of  her  children  to  her.  There  you  have  the  reason 
why  Ireland  is  Ireland.  We  sometimes  hear  the 
phrase,  "  A  nation  once  again."  I  marvel  that  an 
Irish  pencil  wrote  it.  Why,  Ireland  has  always 
been  a  nation,  and  a  nation  that  has  come  thunder- 
ing down  the  centuries,  unswervingly  following  the 
footsteps  of  God. 

Ireland  is  Ireland  in  her  Catholicity  and  her 
Catholic  history.  The  divine  gift  of  faith,  that  St. 
Patrick  threw  like  a  white  mantle  over  the  whole 
land,  covers  it  to-day  as  pure  and  untarnished  as 
when  he  walked  on  earth.  Wicked  men  strove  to 
rend  and  sully  it;  they  did  but  beautify  it  with  the 
glorious  red  of  the  martyr's  blood.  All  through  the 
land  Christ  sits  enthroned  amid  the  ceaseless  prayers 
of  His  loved  and  loving  people. 

This  is  the  secret  of  her  undying  vitality.  This 
vivid,  fervent  love  of  God,  gilding  and  ennobling 

[6] 


IRELAND 

her  poverty,  strengthening  her  in  danger,  comfort- 
ing her  in  sorrow,  uniting  her  to  the  tabernacle  of 
the  Crucified  One,  is  the  heart-beat  of  Ireland. 
God  bless  her! 


[7] 


CHAPTER  II 

LIFE    IN    THE    CITY 

TRELAND,  as  we  have  said,  is  Ireland  because  of 
■*■  her  Catholicity.  Therefore,  he  who  would  un- 
derstand life  in  Ireland  must  take  full  cognizance  of 
this  fact,  for  it  is  this  that  is  the  leading  character- 
istic of  the  nation.  The  comprehending  eye  of  faith 
alone  can  see  the  force  that  has  kept  her  national 
life  pulsing  strong  through  days  when  death  seemed 
inevitable;  the  only  force  that  will  nourish  life  when 
the  dangerous  tide  of  prosperity  flows  strong  across 
her  hallowed  plains. 

Ireland  has  always  been  governed  by  the  Ten 
Commandments.  These  —  the  only  guide  to  man- 
hood and  nationhood  —  have  been  the  buoy  that 
upheld  her  in  the  ebb-tide  of  adversity,  and  will  be 
the  anchor  to  steady  her  in  the  flood-tide  of  pros- 
perity. 

The  stranger  who  enters  her  gates  finds  himself 
startled  and  delighted  beyond  measure  at  the  won- 
derful atmosphere  of  faith  that  hangs  over  the  whole 
land.  The  gift  of  St.  Patrick  moves  and  vivifies 
all. 

One  autumn  morning  in  the  late  nineties,  between 
dusk  and  dawn,  I  stood,  looking  from  the  deck  of 
our  rushing  vessel  for  my  first  glimpse  of  Erin. 
Somewhere,  over  the  sea  rim,  hidden  in  the  shadow, 

[8] 


LIFE  IN  THE  CITY 

lay  the  land  whence  came  our  faith.  By  my  side 
stood  a  returning  exile,  "  a  finibus  terrae,"  who, 
after  thirty-five  years  of  absence,  had  come  back  to 
the  love  of  his  heart.  His  white  hair  blown  back  by 
the  breeze  that  had  kissed  the  holy  hills  of  Ireland, 
he  stood  with  parted  lips,  eagerly  gazing  into  the 
fast-vanishing  shadow.  Soon  I  heard  his  cry  — 
"There  she  is:  God  be  blessed,"  and  before  us, 
still  hidden  in  the  half  light,  loomed  the  eastern 
mountain  masses  of  the  land  of  St.  Patrick. 

The  moments  pass,  and,  as  our  vessel  speeds  for- 
ward, gloom  gives  place  to  gray,  and  gray  to  gold, 
as  the  sun  springs  from  the  sea  behind  us,  and  the 
dark  shadows  flee  before  his  level  rays,  that  bathe 
all  the  sleeping  land  in  golden  fire.  The  sea  runs 
in  between  two  promontories  laughing  down  at  it 
as  it  goes  narrowing  to  a  silver  strip,  that  hides 
itself  and  slips  sparkling  through  the  heart  of  a  city, 
nestling  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  It  is  Dublin 
Bay  and  Dublin  city. 

"  Th'  ana'm  an  Dhia.     But  there  it  is  — 
The  dawn  on  the  hills  of  Ireland! 
God's  angels  lifting  the  night's  black  veil 
From  the  fair,  sweet  face  of  my  sireland! 

0  Ireland,  isn't  it  grand  you  look  — 
Like  a  bride  in  her  rich  adornin'? 

And  with  all  the  pent-up  love  of  my  heart 

1  bid  you  the  top  o'  the  mornin' !  " 

I  looked  at  my  exile,  and  saw  his  knuckles  whiten 
as  he  gripped  the  rail  of  the  vessel. 

[9] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

We  pass  under  the  dark  brown  hill  of  Howth,  that 
stands  sentinel  at  the  harbor  mouth,  marking,  now 
as  in  the  days  of  St.  Lawrence,  the  tide  of  life  that 
flows  and  ebbs  upon  the  bay.  To  the  south  and 
west  the  mountains  of  Dublin  and  Wicklow  go  roll- 
ing away,  range  on  range  —  past  the  Golden  Spears, 
those  shapely  twin  shafts  that  guard  the  beautiful 
Vale  of  Shanganagh,  "  sweetest  and  greenest  of 
vales," —  on  to  Lugnaquilla,  the  giant  guardian  of 
Erin's  eastern  boundary. 

The  blackness  of  the  early  morning  has  gone  from 
them  and  given  place  to  numberless  shades  of  brown 
and  green  and  gray.  Past  them  we  glide,  past 
Clontarf  there  on  the  right,  past  the  Tolka,  until  our 
vessel  goes  stealing  in  among  the  houses,  and  comes 
to  rest  in  the  very  center  of  the  city. 

My  white-haired  friend,  exiled  now  no  longer, 
whose  years  seem  to  have  fallen  from  him  as  he 
touches  once  again  the  earth  of  his  motherland, 
cries  to  me  — "  Come,  and  I'll  show  you  something 
worth  getting  up  early  to  see." 

Along  the  quays,  and  down  Dublin's  main  artery 
—  O'Connell  Street  —  he  drags  me.  He  stops  not 
to  look  at  the  splendid  monument  to  the  Liberator 
that  adorns  the  center  of  the  street,  but  walks 
rapidly  on,  climbs  the  winding  steps  of  the  Pillar, 
and  steps  out  upon  the  lofty  platform.  With  a 
gesture  that  embraces  every  point  of  the  compass, 
he  exclaims,  "Look  there:  isn't  she  splendid?" 
Truly  "  she  "  is.  Dublin  —  Ireland's  queen  city  — 
seated  on  green  plain,  and  flanked  by  sea  and  moun 

[10] 


■ 


LIFE  IN  THE  CITY 

tain,  sits  serenely  by  the  banks  of  the  placid  Liffey, 
that  comes  curving  in  from  the  west,  and  moves 
beneath  her  bridges,  on  to  meet  the  bay.  My 
friend  makes  sure  that  I  shall  see  all.  From  Kil- 
liney  Hill  to  Tallaght,  and  round  by  the  Phoenix 
Park,  to  Ireland's  Eye,  nothing  escapes  him. 

It  is  a  city  of  churches.  From  the  pro-cathedral 
at  our  feet,  to  Dalkey,  nearly  a  dozen  miles  away  to 
the  south,  and  to  the  equidistant  Howth  in  the  east, 
the  spires  and  domes  spring  from  almost  every 
street.  To  the  west  is  the  closely  crowded  tenement 
district  behind  the  Four  Courts  —  a  maze  of  lanes 
and  alleys.  Here  in  all  directions  God  finds  a  home 
among  His  Irish  poor.  St.  Michan's,  the  Ann 
Street  church,  sits  amid  its  densely  crowded  lanes, 
and  by  its  side  the  George's  Hill  convent,  doing 
marvelous  work  among  the  poor.  Scarce  a  stone's 
throw  away  the  saintly  sons  of  St.  Dominic  labor, 
side  by  side  with  the  untiringly  devoted  apostles  of 
St.  Francis.  Following  the  monitory  hand  of  my 
friend,  I  see,  closer  to  the  Liftey,  the  massive  shapes 
of  "  Arran  Quay  "  and  "  Adam  and  Eve's." 

Truly,  God  is  not  neglected  here.  Every  church 
door  is  open,  and  every  door  swings  perpetually  at 
the  touch  of  the  hands  of  an  endless  stream  of 
worshipers.  Every  man  that  passes  by  raises  his 
hat,  and  every  woman  bows  or  curtsies  to  their 
Kins:  within. 

We  find  ourselves  at  1 1  a.m.  outside  the  door  of 
the  pro-cathedral, — kk  We  must  hear  Mass,"  my 
friend  declares.      It  is  an  ordinary  week-day  morn- 

en] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

ing.  We  could  barely  push  open  the  swing-door. 
Judge  of  my  astonishment  when  I  saw  the  cause  of 
the  obstruction.  Mass  was  being  celebrated  at  the 
high  altar  at  the  far  end  of  the  great  building,  and 
before  me,  from  the  very  door  to  the  altar  rail, 
stretched  a  sea  of  heads  bent  in  reverent  adoration. 
The  contrast  from  the  busy  rush  of  life  in  the  streets 
outside  was  astounding.  The  unrest  of  the  world 
ceased  and  yielded  place  to  the  silent  peace  of  God. 
All  was  still,  save  where,  with  fervent  ejaculations, 
glowing  souls  poured  forth  their  love  of  Christ. 

Oh,  what  prayer  and  what  intense  fervor  was 
theirs!  Christ,  the  loved  God-Man,  was  on  the 
altar,  in  the  hands  of  their  priest,  and  it  was  as  if 
the  surging  love  in  their  hearts  leaped  all  barriers 
of  sense  as  they  knelt  before  Him  and  greeted  Him. 

Round  the  door  and  for  some  distance  into  the 
crowded  cathedral  the  congregation  consists  of  fish- 
women,  flower-girls,  and  vendors  of  street  wares. 
At  the  sound  of  the  bell,  warning  of  His  coming, 
I  knelt  as  best  I  could  among  these.  All  were  ob- 
livious of  everything  save  Christ. 

By  my  side  knelt  an  old  lady  —  a  brown  shawl 
drawn  modestly  over  her  head  and  shoulders.  A 
white  pleated  cap,  beneath  which  her  gray  hair  was 
smoothed,  peeped  from  the  encircling  shawl  that 
framed  the  oval  of  her  face.  It  was  a  face  of  dulled 
ivory,  meshed  and  seamed  by  lines  cut  by  the  chisel 
of  time,  yet  a  face  beautiful  with  a  beauty  not  of 
earth.  Eternal  calmness  and  resignation  sat  upon 
her  brow,  and  the  clear  light  of  purity  shone  through 

[12] 


LIFE  IN  THE  CITY 

those  eyes  that  are  gazing  at  her  God  enthroned 
on  the  altar.  Mass  for  her  was  a  colloquy  of  intense 
and  reverent  joy,  and  she  made  it  with  lips  moving 
in  passionate  prayer,  utterly  unmindful  of  those 
around  her. 

One  could  only  kneel  by  her  side  and  in  all  hu- 
mility pray  God  for  an  understanding  of  Him  such 
as  she  possesses. 

Talk  with  these  dear  old  souls  as  they  come  out, 
slipping  the  well-worn  rosaries  into  their  pockets, 
or  maybe  standing  for  a  moment  to  finish  a  "  dicket  " 
before  taking  up  their  baskets.  Dare  to  hint  that 
it  must  be  difficult  to  find  time  to  get  to  Mass,  and 
you  had  better  be  prepared  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat, 
for  many  of  them  have  developed  a  remarkable  de- 
gree of  proficiency  in  rapid  manipulation  of  the  un- 
ruly member. 

"  Yerra,"  said  one  to  me,  with  a  look  of  comical 
anger;  "d'ye  take  me  for  a  haythin,  that  I'd  be- 
gredge  a  half-hour  to  God  Almighty,  whin  I  can  see 
Him  so  aisy?  God  sind  ye  sinse,"  and  she  moved 
oft  with  a  pitying  nod  of  tolerance. 

"  Thim  say-rovers,  what  have  they  in  their  heads 
at  all,  at  all?  "  I  heard  her  remark  to  a  familiar 
who  joined  her  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

Experience  showed  that  the  crowd  that  thronged 
the  cathedral  had  its  counterpart  in  the  other 
churches  of  the  city.  For  instance,  turn  to  the 
left  as  you  leave  the  cathedral  steps,  climb  the  hill, 
and  before  you  are  the  massive  pillars  of  the  church 
of  St.  Francis  Xavier.     Here,  daily,  Masses  begin 

[13] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

at  6  a.m.,  and  end  at  11.30.  An  eminent  Roman 
ecclesiastic,  on  a  visit  to  Dublin,  was  asked  to  give 
Communion  during  his  Mass  in  this  church.  He  did 
so,  but  when  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed  and  the 
people  were  still  surging  forward,  he  became  alarmed 
and  sent  the  altar  boy  for  a  priest  to  help  him. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  like  it  in  my  life,"  he  de- 
clared, "  and  so  many  men!  "  In  that  church  alone 
full  400,000  Communions  are  given  yearly.  Small 
wonder  that  the  people  of  Ireland  smile  under  their 
crosses  when  Christ  thus  shares  them  with  them. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  our  street  vendors  of 
the  cathedral.  To  the  passer-by  they  may  seem, 
as  they  trudge  along,  bent  beneath  their  baskets, 
negligible  units  in  the  life  of  the  city,  but  God  and 
His  angels  mark  the  pearls  of  His  praise  that  drop 
from  their  lips  as  they  thread  those  winding  streets. 

Such  splendid  souls,  hidden  beneath  an  unassum- 
ing exterior ! 

Years  afterwards,  when  privileged  to  go  amongst 
them  as  a  missionary,  I  saw  them  in  their  poor 
homes,  and  wondered  at  the  vivid  faith  that  gilded 
and  ennobled  their  poverty  and  trials.  The  grace 
of  God  was  fairly  blazing  among  them.  I  saw  them 
crowding  to  the  communion  rail  every  morning,  and 
filling  the  church  every  evening.  I  saw  them  in  their 
homes  —  so  often  only  a  room  with  the  boards  of 
the  floor  for  a  bed.  Yet  none  so  poor  but  boasted  a 
statue  or  picture  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows  and  Love, 
or  of  His  Blessed  Mother,  their  Myden  Dheelish. 

[14] 


LIFE  IN  THE  CITY 

It  was  inexpressibly  touching  to  see  their  undying 
love  for  the  Mother  of  God.  In  every  home  is  a 
little  shrine  to  her,  decked  by  loving  hands  and 
poverty's  big  heart.  A  tiny  lamp  glows  before  it, 
and  often  this  is  the  only  light  in  the  room. 

It  tore  one's  very  heartstrings  to  enter  those  poor 
rooms,  and,  by  the  flickering  light  of  the  shrine 
lamp,  see  our  Lady  of  Perpetual  Succor  looking 
across  the  room  at  a  worn  and  gasping  saint  lying 
paralyzed  and  pain-twisted;  or  to  see  our  Lady  of 
Lourdes  trying  to  comfort  a  poor  widow  as  she 
kneels  at  the  desolate  hearth,  endeavoring  to  heat 
water  at  a  fire  made  with  the  only  fuel  she  can  get  — 
a  handful  of  coal  garnered  from  a  passing  wagon 
—  to  feed  the  three  little  children  that  cling  round 
her  crying  with  cold  and  hunger.  And  impossible 
as  it  may  seem,  our  Blessed  Lady  does  accomplish 
her  task  —  for  everywhere  one  meets  with  an  al- 
most incredible  resignation  which  finds  expression  in 
"  Welcome  be  the  most  holy  will  of  God."  Their 
awful  poverty  but  purifies  and  refines  their  souls, 
and  gives  them  a  clearer  vision  of  the  infinite. 

It  was  in  a  Dublin  parish  that  I  met  an  old  lady 
who  had  attended  a  proselytizing  medicine  mission. 
Those  who  go  are  forced  to  hear  a  sermon  and 
hymns  before  the  distribution  of  the  coveted  medi- 
cine, and,  of  course,  these  places  are  a  source  of 
strong  temptation  to  penniless  people  with  children 
or  relatives  dangerously  ill. 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  God,  woman,  were  you 

[15] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

doing  in  such  a  place,  and  you  a  Catholic?  "  I  asked 
her. 

"Ah,  father,  but  I  haven't  a  penny — and  poor 
Molly,  so  the  doctor  told  me,  would  die  if  I  didn't 
get  her  medicine !  " 

"  And  so  you  went  and  sat  there  and  joined  that 
crowd?  " 

"  Wisha,  father,  don't  be  vexin'  yerself,"  she  ex- 
postulated, with  a  triumphant  air  of  finality,  "  wasn't 
I  prayin'  agin'  him  the  whole  time  wid  me  rosary!  " 

God  bless  them,  'tis  hard  to  blame  them. 

As  a  priest  moves  through  the  streets,  it  is  "  God 
bless  you,  father!  "  on  all  sides.  Each  one  of  the 
numberless  children,  who  positively  swarm  through 
the  streets,  their  only  playground,  deems  it  his  or 
her  bounden  duty  to  "  raise  the  cap  "  or  "  curchey  " 
to  the  soggarth. 

"Come  on,  Maggie,  here's  the  priest;"  and 
babies  are  snatched  up  and  wee  brothers  hauled 
along  with  impetuous  haste  by  little  maidens,  who 
live  their  lives  in  his  path,  and  with  a  "  God  bless 
y',  father!  "  curtsy  before  him. 

Passing  one  day  through  an  alley  in  the  Coombe, 
I  saw  two  boys  playing  in  the  roadway.  They  were 
evidently  brothers,  one  about  seven  years  of  age, 
and  the  other  about  five.  Their  raiment  was 
simple;  each  wore  a  multi-colored  pair  of  knicker- 
bockers, held  in  position  over  an  openwork  shirt, 
by  a  single  length  of  string  passed  over  one  shoulder. 
The  elder  boy  wore  a  cap,  the  younger  had  none, 
the  want  being  supplied  by  a  fine  shock  of  hair. 

[16] 


LIFE  IN  THE  CITY 

On  seeing  me,  the  elder  exclaimed,  "  Hey, 
Michael,  come  on,  here's  the  priest,"  and  both  ran 
to  the  side  of  the  road  to  meet  me. 

When  I  came  up,  "  God  bless  ye,  father!  "  came 
from  the  boy  in  command,  as  he  raised  his  tattered 
cap. 

The  smaller  boy,  meantime,  stood  bashfully  by, 
evidently  embarrassed,  and  gently  stroking  one  ankle 
with  the  toes  of  the  other  foot,  while,  with  bent 
head,  he  gave  a  troubled  glance  at  me. 

The  bigger  boy,  wondering  at  the  absence  of  greet- 
ing from  No.  2,  looked  sharply  round,  and  on  the 
instant  showed  that  he  was  master  of  the  situation. 

He  realized  at  once  the  quandary  of  his  compan- 
ion —  he  had  no  cap  to  lift  in  salutation. 

Discovery  and  command  were  almost  in  the  same 
instant;  without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  jumped 
at  him  and  yelled,  "  Why  don't  ye  rise  yer  hair  to 
the  priest,  Michael?  " 

Michael's  embarrassment  fell  from  him  at  once, 
the  caressing  toes  were  planted  firmly  on  the  ground, 
the  bent  head  lifted,  and,  eagerly  grasping  his  thick 
forelock,  that  tumbled  almost  to  his  eyes,  he  "  riz  " 
with  a  belated  but  fervent  "  God  bless  ye,  father!  " 

This  is  a  people  whose  church  is  their  home. 
They  are  carried  into  it  at  baptism,  and  their  feet 
ever  turn  to  it  until  they  are  carried  in  death  to  rest 
for  the  night  before  the  God  whom  they  loved. 

I  have  dwelt  thus  far  only  upon  Dublin,  because 
its  state  is  typical  of  all  Irish  cities.  From  Derry 
to  Cork  and  from  Wicklow  to  Galway  is  the  same 

[17] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

manifestation  of  fervent  faith.  Stand  at  the  door 
of  St.  Eugene's  cathedral,  towering  high  over 
Derry  city,  and  see  the  crowds  that  go  pouring  into 
that  splendid  pile.  They  are  people  of  curt,  straight 
speech,  with  hearts  of  gold,  fire  tried.  Below  you 
is  another  crowd  passing  in  to  the  Long  Tower 
church.  Cross  the  Foyle  to  the  Waterside,  and 
again  you  find  a  multitude  hurrying  to  the  altar 
throne  of  their  God. 

Would  you  know  the  Catholic  spirit  of  Galway? 
Come  with  me  through  the  winding  streets  of  that 
quaint  old  town,  with  its  Spanish  mansions,  down 
by  the  rushing  Corrib,  past  the  black  wharves  that, 
alas!  stretch  hungrily  out  to  see,  waiting,  waiting, 
waiting.  Let  us  go  beyond  the  Dominican  church, 
stand  at  the  turn  of  the  Claddagh  village,  and  look 
upon  the  wide  expanse  of  Galway  Bay.  Before  us 
the  bluff  hills  of  Clare  go  shouldering  out  into  the 
ocean  as  if  striving  to  reach  those  glorious  Conne- 
mara  hills  that  tower  in  the  heavens  to  the  north- 
west. Out  on  the  harbor  moves  a  fleet  of  boats  to- 
wards the  open  sea.  These  are  the  fishing  smacks 
by  which  our  hardy  toilers  of  the  sea  win  their  liveli- 
hood. Note  well  him  who  stands  on  the  prow  of  the 
foremost  boat.  It  is  a  vested  priest,  with  book  and 
cross.  To-day  is  the  opening  of  the  fishing  season, 
and  these  men  will  not  lower  a  net  or  line  until  their 
priest  has  called  down  solemnly  the  blessing  of  God 
on  their  boats  and  on  the  sea. 

Do  you  wish -to  see  more  of  life  in  old  Ireland's 
cities?     Let  us  turn  inland,  and  go  speeding  down 

[18] 


LIFE  IN  THE  CITY 

the  long  valley  at  the  back  of  the  Clare  mountains, 
past  Ardrahan  and  Gort  and  Ennis,  south  to  where, 
as  we  slip  over  the  shoulder  of  the  Cratloe  Hills,  we 
see  Limerick  seated  by  the  Shannon's  rolling  flood. 
Heed  not  the  Treaty  Stone  lying  in  the  shadow  of 
St.  Munchin's,  nor  the  winding  lanes  of  famed  Gar- 
ryowen,  wreathing  round  St.  John's  cathedral;  but 
come  with  me  on  any  Monday  night  of  the  year,  and 
watch  the  crowd  of  men  that  comes  pouring  down 
the  main  street,  filling  it  from  side  to  side,  as  though 
some  mighty  meeting  had  just  dissolved.  Aye,  a 
mighty  meeting  has  just  ended.  Walk  with  me  to 
the  corner  of  the  hill  beyond,  round  which  this 
splendid  tide  of  human  life  comes  flowing,  and  see 
the  meeting-place.  It  is  the  church  of  St.  Alphon- 
sus,  of  the  Redemptorist  Fathers,  "  the  holy  fa- 
thers," as  they  are  affectionately  called  throughout 
the  city.  There  has  been  a  meeting  of  their  men's 
sodality,  or  rather,  of  one-half  of  their  sodality. 
On  Tuesday  night  the  other  half  will  come  together. 
Xo  wonder  that  the  stately  church  cannot  hold  all 
at  one  meeting — for  that  sodality  numbers  6,000 
men. 

What  a  splendid  testimony  to  the  faith  of  Limer- 
ick! 

Xor  is  this  all.  Come  to  the  church  on  any 
Wednesday  evening  you  choose,  and  you  will  find  an- 
other army,  lively  and  noisy,  as  it  pours  out  in  a 
rushing  stream  —  the  sodality  of  Limerick  boys,  who 
fill  the  church  to  overflowing. 

And  so  it  ever  is  —  in  every  Irish  city.     Every 

[19] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

true  Irish  heart  is  chained  by  the  chain  of  love  to 
the  tabernacle  door,  and  if  at  times,  man-like,  they 
err,  like  penitent  children  to  a  parent,  they  come 
back.  Worn  and  weary,  maybe,  they  pass  in  their 
hundred  thousands  under  the  shadow  of  the  church 
door,  and,  touched  by  the  cleansing  hands  of  Christ, 
come  forth  purified  and  strengthened,  to  take  up 
life's  burden. 

Blessed  are  the  guardian  angels  of  the  children  of 
such  cities. 


[20] 


CHAPTER  III 

LIFE    IN    THE    COUNTRY 

LEAVING  the  towns,  we  are  now  in  the  open 
spaces  of  Holy  Ireland,  and  as  we  move  along 
the  roads  we  see  further  proof  of  the  fact  that  we 
are  among  a  people  whose  lives  are  lived  in  the 
presence  of  God. 

The  magic  green  of  Ireland  that  colors  the  plains 
goes  creeping  to  the  bog  edge  and  up  the  mountain- 
side, to  where  the  brown  of  the  heather  meets  it. 
The  country-side  is  dotted  with  cozy  cabins,  com- 
fortable farmhouses,  and  solid  stone  mansions, 
among  which  the  people  move  at  their  daily  toil. 
Across  the  fields  they  go,  tending  their  crops  and 
cattle,  and  on  the  mountain-side  they  guard  their 
sheep;  they  are  delving  in  the  brown  bog  and  work- 
ing at  the  edge  of  reed-ringed  lakes  —  turquoise 
gems,  dropped  by  the  hand  of  our  Creator  upon  the 
green  bosom  of  Erin. 

They  are  a  reserved  people,  reticent  with  stran- 
gers; but  those  who  gain  their  hearts  find  hidden  be- 
hind this  reticence,  as  by  a  barrier,  a  mine  of  rare 
qualities.  They  have  a  quiet,  gentle  dignity  that  is 
all  their  own,  and  a  native  refinement  that  is  remark- 
able. This  is  a  source  of  wonder  to  many,  but  the 
observant  Catholic  soon  learns  whence  these  gifts 

[21] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

come.  They  come  from  a  close  and  continued  living 
with  Christ  and  His  Blessed  Mother  —  the  Virgin 
and  the  Virgin's  Son.  To  this  main  cause  another 
may  be  added,  namely,  the  history  of  their  land  and 
Faith,  as  shown  forth  by  the  ruins  and  relics  among 
which  they  pass  their  lives.  These  lie  before  them 
like  the  leaves  of  an  unrolled  script,  every  fold  il- 
luminated and  plain  to  read  —  telling  of  the  glorious 
martyrdom  of  those  heroes  and  saints  for  God  and 
country — their  ancestors. 

As  we  look  at  these  men  the  mind  instinctively 
goes  back  to  the  lives  of  the  patriarchs,  whose  simple 
pastoral  story  is  figured  in  the  pages  of  the  Old 
Testament,  tending  their  flocks  and  herds,  while 
their  women  weave  and  spin  and  care  for  their 
household  duties,  their  sole  test  of  manhood  being 
obedience  to  the  commands  of  God.  So  in  Ireland, 
the  lives  of  her  sons  are  truly  patriarchal.  They 
are  men  who  understand  the  dignity  of  labor,  and 
are  self-respecting  and  self-contained.  In  their  eyes 
labor  is  sanctified  by  the  touch  of  the  hand  of 
Christ  at  the  Nazareth  bench,  and  all  is  done  in 
union  with  Him. 

Take  any  one  of  these  men  that  you  see  toiling  in 
the  fields.  He  has  knelt  and  said  his  prayers  this 
morning,  as  on  every  morning  of  his  life,  and  of- 
fered, as  is  his  daily  custom,  all  the  work  of  the  day 
to  God.  He  goes  through  the  day  conscious  that 
God's  paternal  glance  is  towards  him.  This  eleva- 
tion of  thought  finds  frequent  external  expression  as 
he  moves  among  his  neighbors.     Here  is  a  friend 

[22] 


LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

coming  down  the  lane  that  skirts  the  field  in  which 
one  of  them  is  working  —  listen  to  the  greeting. 
The  voice  of  the  passer-by  rings  out,  as  soon  as  he 
sees  his  friend,  "  God  bless  the  work."  Our  toiler 
in  the  field  straightens  himself,  and  quite  naturally 
and  simply  sends  back  another  blessing,  hidden  un- 
der the  words  "  and  you  too." 

Let  us  follow  the  traveler.  He  approaches  the 
hospitable  half-door  of  a  roadside  cottage  —  the 
half-door,  that  is  an  ever-present  invitation  of  wel- 
come to  enter  and  share  the  comfort  that  it  half- 
reveals,  half-conceals.  "  God  save  all  here,"  he 
cries.  "  God  save  you  kindly,"  comes  in  quick  re- 
sponse from  the  inmates. 

Such  is  the  greeting,  and  such  the  welcome  that 
sounds  throughout  the  country.  In  mountain- 
shielded  Wexford,  amid  the  placid  fields  of  Meath, 
by  the  rushing  streams  of  King's  County,  and  softly 
undulating  hills  of  Munster,  God's  presence  is  al- 
ways felt.  This  is  a  people  that  realizes  so  vividly 
the  fundamental  principle  of  success  in  life,  namely, 
that  man  is  on  earth  to  praise,  reverence,  and  serve 
God  and  save  his  soul,  that  all  their  actions  are 
measured  and  thoughts  and  words  are  colored  by  it. 

The  suppliant  by  the  roadside  asks  alms  in  the 
name  of  God  and  His  Blessed  Mother,  and  at  the 
smallest  gift  returns  thanks  to  God  and  the  giver. 
Even  though  nothing  be  received,  a  blessing  will  be 
called  down,  "  May  God  and  His  Blessed  Mother 
protect  you,  and  may  you  never  know  want."  Be- 
cause he  is  poor  a  man  does  not  become  a  pariah. 

[23] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Take  the  wanderer,  looking  for  work.  As  he  moves 
from  village  to  village,  he  is  certain  of  a  welcome,  a 
seat  by  the  cozy  turf  fire,  and  a  "  bit  an'  a  sup  " 
from  the  hospitable  hands  of  "  herself."  And  if  he 
show  any  shame-faced  reluctance,  "  Sure,  wasn't 
Christ  Himself  poor  and  lonesome?"  she  cries,  as 
she  goes  to  him  with  good  warm  food  and  a  warmer 
welcome,  "  an'  in  helpin'  you  we're  helpin'  Him." 

This  is  their  daily  habit,  but  when  Sunday  comes 
they  whole-heartedly  and  joyously  keep  the  com- 
mand, "  Remember  thou  keep  holy  the  Sabbath 
Day."  Their  first  duty  as  a  nation  is  to  visit  the 
God  of  Nations.  We  see  them  gathering  in  battal- 
ions, and  marching  to  the  church  as  a  center. 
Across  the  fields  and  callows,  through  the  meadows 
by  paths  centuries  old,  they  come  thronging  into 
the  roads  leading  to  the  church. 

Let  us  stand  on  Sunday  morning  at  any  country 
church  in  Ireland,  be  it  the  little  white  chapel  on 
Coomakista  close  to  the  house  of  the  Liberator,  or 
the  homes  of  God  in  the  Clare  or  Donegal  glens, 
and  we  see  the  same  reverent  adoration  that  we  be- 
held in  the  city  churches.  And  as  often  as  not, 
though  the  church  be  crowded  from  altar  to  door, 
there  are  almost  as  many  more  worshipers  kneeling 
beneath  the  open  sky  on  the  gravel  outside,  and  at- 
tentively following  the  Mass.  Ireland's  churches 
are  not  numerous  enough  to  contain  all  the  loyal 
hearts  that  flock  to  them,  despite  the  fact  that  they 
have  multiplied  their  churches  and  chapels  in- 
credibly, and  in  many  of  them  several  Masses  are 

[24] 


LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

said  on  each  Sunday  morning.  The  burning  faith 
that  makes  them  long  to  keep  their  God  as  near  to 
their  homes  as  possible  has  lit  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land  the  tiny  red  lamp, 
telling  of  the  Majestic  Presence  within  —  watching 
and  waiting,  guarding  and  guiding,  and  He  who  says, 
"  Come  to  Me  all  ye  who  labor  and  are  burdened, 
and  I  will  refresh  you,"  must  be  more  than  pleased 
at  the  national  answer  to  His  call. 

And  after  the  Mass  comes  the  gathering  of  the 
cronies  in  friendly  groups  to  discuss  current  topics; 
the  leisurely  unhooking  of  the  horses;  the  oft- 
interrupted  yoking  to  the  car.  Here  are  the  in- 
fants, resplendent  in  white  robes,  each  the  center  of 
an  admiring  circle,  as  it  awaits  admission  to  the  num- 
bers of  the  faithful  by  the  reception  of  baptism; 
there  are  a  crowd  of  lively  children  for  catechism, 
and  beyond  are  the  mourners  praying  at  the  graves 
of  their  dead.  Inside  the  church  the  benches  are 
dotted  with  worshipers  finishing  their  thanksgiving 
after  Communion,  or  making  the  Stations,  or  talking 
in  love  to  Christ,  whose  spirit  and  grace  flow  out 
over  all. 

Sunday  afternoon  is  spent  in  innocent  amusement. 
The  elders,  seated  under  the  hawthorn,  or  strolling 
quietly  by  road  or  river,  or  grouped  on  the  canal 
bridge,  pass  the  hours  in  pleasant  converse.  Some- 
times their  steps  turn  to  where,  in  the  neighboring 
field,  the  shouts  of  the  younger  generation  tell  of 
joyous  strife  on  the  hurling  or  football  field. 

The  sun  dips  to  the  western  hills,  and  the  mellow 

[25] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

tones  of  the  vesper  bell  fill  the  gloaming  with  music. 
They  began  their  day  with  God,  so  now  they  end 
it  in  the  same  way.  Every  Sunday  evening  finds 
the  Irish  nation  kneeling  in  fervent  prayer  before 
our  Lord  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  who,  uplifted 
by  His  priest,  gives  His  blessing  and  peace  to  all. 

Another  universal  act  of  faith  is  the  saying  of  the 
Angelus.  At  morn,  at  noon,  and  at  evening,  when 
the  bell  that  announces  the  mystery  of  the  In- 
carnation rings  out  its  double  peal,  all  minds  turn 
to  God.  The  plowman  in  the  field,  the  maiden  at 
the  spinning-wheel,  the  herdsman  with  his  flocks. 
the  boy  at  his  game,  all  stand  motionless,  and  raise 
their  hearts  in  prayer,  giving  thanks  for  the  Re- 
demption. 

Once,  when  walking  along  a  quiet  boreen,  on  a 
day  when  the  summer  sun  set  all  things  shimmering, 
I  saw  in  a  small  field  a  young  man  and  his  wife, 
industriously  working  —  saving  their  little  crop  of 
hay.  A  little  distance  away,  beneath  the  sheltering 
shadow  of  a  beech  tree,  sat  the  baby,  chuckling  and 
playing  with  a  frolicsome  dog. 

Suddenly  the  Angelus  bell  rang  out  across  the 
miles  from  a  neighboring  monastery.  At  once  the 
mother  ran  to  the  little  child,  caught  it  in  her  arms, 
and  placed  it  kneeling  on  the  grass.  Then  she  knelt 
beside,  holding  its  little  hands  aloft,  caught  in  both 
her  own,  as  she  looked  up  to  heaven.  The  husband, 
who  had  followed,  knelt  beside  the  two,  and  in 
answer  to  the  message  of  the  bell,  across  the  soft 
silence  came,  "  The  angel  of  the  Lord  declared  unto 

[26] 


LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

Mary,"  from  the  reverent  lips  of  the  kneeling  wife, 
and  with  bent  head  the  husband,  answering,  gave 
audible  testimony  of  his  faith.  It  was  a  delightful 
scene. 

One  of  the  best-known  works  of  a  famous  painter 
is  entitled  "  The  Angelus."  In  it  is  depicted  a  corn- 
field, and  in  the  foreground  two  figures,  husband 
and  wife,  are  together  in  prayer,  standing.  Far, 
far,  do  I  prefer  the  picture  of  these  children  of 
Mary,  kneeling  in  prayer,  on  the  bosom  of  Ireland, 
their  hearts  close  joined,  and  held  by  the  clinging 
touch  of  baby  fingers. 

But  all  are  not  so  independent  in  a  worldly  way 
as  those  whom  we  have  been  watching.  Some  there 
are  who,  through  no  fault  of  their  own,  pass  their 
lives  in  distressing  poverty.  Their  resignation  and 
their  dignified  carrying  of  their  cross  are  wonderful 
to  see.  Well  do  they  realize  the  meaning  of  those 
words  of  Sacred  Scripture,  "  For  a  man's  life  doth 
not  consist  in  the  number  of  things  that  he  pos- 
sesses." The  Israelites  sat  by  the  banks  of  the 
river  and  wept,  in  the  land  of  the  Egyptians.  Here 
the  Egyptians  entered  the  country  and  drove  the 
people  with  blood  and  burning  to  the  shaking  bog 
and  the  arid  mountain-side  beyond  the  river,  where 
they  wept  and  worked  and  lived.  In  the  face  of 
the  bitterest  persecution  they  clung  to  that  for  which 
they  suffered  —  their  faith  —  and  found  strength 
there  when  deprived  of  all  that  goes  to  make  life 
bearable.  By  almost  incredible  labors,  they  gained 
a  pittance,  cultivating  the  boulder-strewn  mountain- 

[27] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

side,  and  working  waist-deep  in  the  black  bog  water, 
draining  and  fertilizing.  This  they  did,  though 
they  knew  full  well  that  every  improvement  meant 
an  added  burden  in  the  form  of  an  increased  rent. 

Though  the  nation,  with  the  advent  of  kindlier, 
juster  times,  has  spread  once  again  over  its  ancestral 
plains,  yet  to-day  there  are  many  still  crippled  owing 
to  the  iniquitous  treatment  of  their  forefathers. 
Criticism  has  sometimes  condemned  them  because 
they  and  their  habitations  are  stained  with  the  brown 
bog  mold.  It  were  as  rational  and  just  to  cast  a 
man  into  a  fire  and  then  reproach  him  for  being 
burnt  and  helpless.  Another  charge  that  has  been 
levelled  at  these  helpless  ones  is  that  of  thriftless- 
ness.  It  is  an  unjust  charge,  for  they  have  shown 
that  when  so  placed  they  can  work  towards  inde- 
pendence, they  are  one  of  the  thriftiest  nations  on 
earth. 

Listen  to  what  the  eminent  John  Morley  has  to 
say  on  this  point: 

"  I,  for  one,  have  long  had  a  high  appreciation  of 
the  great  qualities  of  the  Irish  people.  They  have 
done  the  greatest  part  of  the  hard  work  of  the 
world.  Generations  of  Irish  peasants  have  re- 
claimed the  land  —  the  hard  thankless  land  of  the 
bog  and  the  mountain-side,  knowing  that  the  fruit 
of  their  labor  would  be  confiscated  in  the  shape  of 
rent.  And  the  Irish  have  piety,  they  have  rever- 
ence, and  they  have  had,  and  they  had  only  too 
much,  docility.     They  know  how  to  follow  leaders, 

[28] 


LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

and  I  am  persuaded  that  there  is  in  Ireland  all  the 
material  out  of  which,  with  time,  freedom,  and  re- 
sponsibility, you  may  build  a  solid  nation,  worthy  to 
take  its  place  among  the  other  nations  that  have  the 
British  flag  waving  over  them." 

"  You  paint  a  people  without  faults !  "  cries  some 
one.  No,  they  have  their  faults,  for  God,  when  He 
peopled  the  earth,  did  so  with  men,  and  not  with 
angels.  Their  faults  are  generally  the  excess  of 
their  virtues,  and  are  always  followed  by  sorrow. 

Walking  one  day  on  a  Connemara  road,  I  met  an 
old  woman,  who  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  her  husband. 
I  told  her  that  I  had  not. 

"  Ah,  then,"  she  cried,  "  he  has  the  drink  taken." 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  expostulated.  "  Do 
not  blame  the  man  before  you  are  sure." 

"  I'm  quite  certain  of  it,"  she  replied  sadly,  "  for 
he  has  taken  the  long  road." 

By  the  "  long  road  "  she  meant  a  road  that 
branches  from  the  main  road  a  short  distance  behind 
us,  circles  inland,  and  then  joins  it  again  about  five 
miles  from  where  we  stood.  It  meant  a  round  of 
about  ten  Irish  miles,  while  the  distance  between 
the  point  of  its  departure  from  and  return  to  the 
main  road  is  only  about  three  miles.  On  this  three- 
mile  stretch  stands  a  little  church. 

"  Why  are  you  so  certain,"  I  asked  her,  "  that 
he  has  gone  by  that  long  road,  when  the  straight 
road  home  lies  before  him?  No  man  would  do 
such  a  thing  after  working  hard  all  day!  " 

[29] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

How  little  did  I  dream  of  the  reasons  that 
prompted  that  tired  traveler  to  take  the  "  long 
road."      Intense  faith  and  heart-felt  sorrow! 

The  answer  of  the  poor  woman  to  my  question 
positively  startled  me. 

'  We  always  go  in  in  passin',"  she  said,  "  to  the 
church  by  the  road,  to  say  a  prayer  to  Christ,  who 
watches  us  as  we  go.  -He  couldn't  go  past  without 
speakin'  to  Him,  and  he  wouldn't  go  near  Him  with 
the  sign  of  drink  on  him." 

Was  it  not  magnificent?  Faults!  Aye,  they 
have  faults,  and  God  forgives  them.  That  poor  old 
man,  tired  out  with  a  heavy  day's  work,  done  most 
probably  with  insufficient  food,  yet,  because  he  felt 
that  he  had  taken  too  much  drink,  added  seven  long 
Irish  miles  to  his  homeward  journey,  for  "  he 
couldn't  go  past  without  speakin'  to  Him." 

And,  oh,  how  they  love  and  remember  the  dead! 
A  steady  stream  of  Masses  ascends  to  the  Most 
High,  pleading  for  the  release  of  their  loved  ones 
from  the  cleansing  pains  of  purgatory.  On  All 
Souls'  Day  they  fairly  besiege  heaven. 

Watch  a  congregation  after  Mass,  and  note  the 
numbers  that  cross  to  God's  Acre.  Here  a  young 
widow,  her  feet  still  on  the  threshold  of  life,  strains 
her  infant  to  her  heart,  as  with  bent  head  and 
streaming  eyes,  kneeling  at  the  newly-made  grave  of 
her  dead  husband,  she  passionately  pleads  to  God 
for  him  whom  He  has  called  home.  There  a  daugh- 
\cr  kneels,  rosary  in  hand,  praying  for  her  parents 
and  sister,  whose  names  are  carved  on  the  stone  be- 

[30] 


LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

fore  her.  At  another  grave  stands  an  old  woman, 
bent  with  age,  and  leaning  on  a  staff,  as  she  tells  her 
beads.  The  inscription  on  the  stone  before  her  is 
indecipherable  with  age.  I  learnt  her  history. 
Fifty  years  before  her  husband  had  been  buried 
there,  and  some  years  afterwards  two  of  her  sisters, 
and  for  half  a  century  she  had  come  weekly  to  pray 
at  that  grave.  Her  loved  ones  —  whom  she  soon 
must  join,  for  she  was  over  eighty  years  of  age  — 
found  that  time  had  no  power  over  her  affection. 
Truly,  hers  was  a  love  stronger  than  death. 

Nor  is  their  charity  confined  to  the  family  circle. 
It  is  almost  universal  in  its  scope.  Prayers  are  said 
and  Masses  offered  for  "  those  who  died  to-day," 
"  the  soul  that's  deepest  in,"  "  the  soul  that  wants 
it  most,"  "  those  that  are  forgotten,"  "  those  that 
did  me  harm,"  and  many  other  intentions,  showing 
tangibly  the  mighty  power  of  Christian  charity. 

There  is  a  grave  in  the  corner  of  a  Munster 
church-yard  with  the  grass  at  its  foot  worn  with  con- 
stant kneeling.  After  Mass  and  after  a  funeral 
numbers  go,  when  they  have  prayed  at  the  graves  of 
their  relations,  and  kneel  at  this  grave.  I  asked 
who  was  buried  there.  It  was  a  poor  stranger, 
who,  passing  through  the  town,  was  taken  ill  sud- 
denly, died,  and  was  buried. 

"  None  of  his  own  know  of  him,"  said  one;  "  and 
he  has  no  one  to  pray  for  him  but  us."  This  ex- 
plained the  grass-worn  grave. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  when  such  souls  come  to 
die  they  go  home  willingly,  like  children  to  a  loved 

[31] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

parent.  One  grand  old  patriarch  whom  I  attended 
was  an  exception  to  this  rule.  Though  perfectly 
ready  to  die,  he  was  very  anxious  to  get  better.  On 
pressing  him  for  his  reason,  he  had  one,  and  only 
one. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  "  I'd  like,  if  God  would  let  me 
get  better,  just  long  enough  to  go  and  see  Christ 
once  again  at  Mass." 

On  another  occasion  an  aged  woman,  dying,  was 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  Viaticum.  As  soon  as 
she  heard  the  hand  on  the  latch  she  knelt  upright, 
although  at  the  point  of  death,  and  repeated  inces- 
santly with  burning  fervor,  "  Cead  mille  failthe, 
Ahirna  !  " — "  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  Lord, 
a  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  Lord!"  until  the 
welcomed  One  lay  in  her  heart.  Priest,  room,  at- 
tendants, all  vanished  from  her  mind,  and  naught 
existed  for  her  but  Christ,  her  Savior,  who  had 
come  to  visit  her. 

Whether  kneeling,  soul-cleansed  by  the  absolu- 
tion of  their  priest,  on  the  sloping  deck  of  the 
Titanic,  or  quietly  waiting  at  home  within  sound  of 
the  church  bells  for  the  coming  of  their  last  moment 
on  earth;  whether  that  moment  comes  in  the  first 
flush  of  youth,  or  when  the  spark  of  life  but  flickers 
feebly,  matters  not.  Death  for  them  is  but  the 
lifting  of  the  curtain  dropped  by  Adam  between 
them  and  their  God,  and  with  a  cry  of  love  on  their 
lips  to  Jesus  and  Mary  they  pass  beyond  it. 


[32] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    EXODUS 

TRELAND  lay  sleeping,  wrapped  in  beauty,  when 
*•  suddenly  the  waves  of  her  eastern  sea  whitened 
beneath  the  rhythmic  falling  of  the  oars  of  a  mighty 
host. 

It  was  the  coming  of  the  Celts.  Out  of  the  east 
they  had  marched,  and  Europe  knelt  before  them  in 
their  invincible  course.  Onward  they  pressed  over 
nation  after  nation,  their  armies  ringed  by  the  silver 
flash  of  the  battle  ax.  Daring  and  indomitable, 
with  victory  following  the  thunder  of  their  squad- 
rons, these  gigantic  warriors,  impelled  by  destiny, 
halted  not  till  their  feet  pressed  the  green  bosom  of 
Erin.  The  magic  charm  of  that  fair  land  held  them 
in  thrall. 

Here  they  rested  and  built  for  themselves  a 
mighty  kingdom,  in  which  they  reigned  supreme. 
Through  the  centuries,  the  spirit  of  conquest  sent 
their  legions  out  across  the  scenes  of  their  former 
triumphs.  The  fighting  Irish  were  known  as 
dreaded  warriors  right  across  Europe  to  the  Alps. 
The  disciplined  Roman  soldiers  in  their  British 
fortresses  recoiled  in  dismay  before  their  irresistible 
rush.      Squadrons   of   Irish  horse  went   thundering 

[33] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

down  the  river  valleys  of  Central  Europe,  the  Irish 
war  cry  rang  through  Alpine  passes,  and  the  gleam 
of  Irish  spears  shone  through  the  dark  forests  of 
Germany,  striking  terror  to  the  hearts  of  all. 

Suddenly,  in  the  full  tide  of  military  success,  they 
were  drawn  home  by  a  mysterious  power,  and  na- 
tions breathed  freely  again.  Years  passed,  and  Ire- 
land was  forgotten  —  Until  the  latter  part  of  the 
fifth  century. 

Then,  another  army  of  fearless  fighters  poured 
from  that  forgotten  island  in  the  west,  and  trav- 
ersed Europe,  conquering,  as  did  the  Irish  of  old, 
all  that  stood  in  their  path;  conquering,  but  not 
with  the  sword,  for  these  warriors  fought  under 
the  banner  of  Christ,  and  their  sole  weapon  was 
His  cross. 

How  came  this  marvelous  change?  What  was 
the  mysterious  power  that  had  drawn  those  con- 
querors home,  had  tamed  those  fiery  hearts,  and 
filled  them  with  enthusiastic  love  of  Christ,  the 
World  Conqueror? 

From  Rome,  Christ's  Vicar  had  sent  his  ambas- 
sador, Patrick,  back  to  this  nation  that  had  once 
enslaved  him.  A  humble  pilgrim,  the  Aoostle  of 
Ireland  traveled  through  the  land,  and  by  his 
graciousness  drew  all  to  him.  He  had  an  intensely 
affectionate  heart,  which  bound  to  him  a  people 
that  could  be  gained  only  by  love.  He  passed 
through  the  ranks  of  these  stern  warriors,  telling 
the  story  of  our  crucified  Christ,  and  His  message 
to  men.      He  spoke  of  a  new  warfare,  a  truer  test  of 

[34] 


THE  EXODUS 

valor  and  manhood  than  that  which  till  now  had 
held  them;  of  a  field  of  conquest  more  noble  than 
aught  else  on  earth;  of  a  Leader  who,  Leader  of 
Leaders,  promised  certain  victory  to  all  who  fol- 
lowed Him.  With  hearts  burning  with  the  intensity 
of  their  desire  to  follow  that  Leader  of  Calvary, 
they  pressed  forward  in  their  might,  to  receive  the 
waters  of  baptism,  and  be  enrolled  in  the  ranks  of 
His  soldiers.  Monasteries  arose  everywhere,  and 
the  whole  land  turned  to  God. 

He  found  the  Irish  a  nation  of  fearless  warriors 
dominating  all  nations  near  them,  and  following 
with  flashing  sword  their  famous  standard  of  the 
flaming  sun-burst. 

He  left  them,  still  a  nation  of  fearless  warriors  — 
but  warriors  anxious  only  to  fight  in  the  ranks  that 
march  behind  the  banner  of  Jesus  Christ.  War- 
riors still  anxious  to  meet  other  nations;  but  only 
because  they  wished  to  share  with  them  the  glorious 
gift  that  St.  Patrick  had  given  to  them  —  the  gift 
of  our  holy  Faith. 

At  that  time,  the  Church  seemed  to  be  in  a 
perilous  plight  —  her  kingly  protectors  were  failing 
in  power  and  strength.  From  east  and  north  and 
south  she  was  surrounded  by  enemies.  Goth  and 
Hun  came  sweeping  in  fierce  flood  across  Europe, 
and  dashed  resistlessly  against  the  walls  of  Rome 
itself.  Pagan  Rome,  with  all  its  might  and  power, 
sank  beneath  the  torrent,  but  Catholic  Rome,  the 
citadel  of  Christ,  stood  strong  and  firm  above  the 
flood  that  surged  across  the  world. 

[35] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Into  the  forefront  of  the  battle,  quick  to  help  her, 
from  the  changed  isle  in  the  west,  came  the  second 
army  of  the  fighting  Irish. 

They  came  out  like  a  mighty  river,  and  wherever 
the  conflict  was  fiercest,  whether  against  pagan  or 
heretic,  there  they  were  to  be  found,  fearless  in  their 
enthusiastic  love  of  Christ. 

Who  could  have  imagined  that  those  dark  forests, 
whose  leaves  had  shivered  uneasily  as  the  fierce  Irish 
squadrons  went  rushing  by  with  irresistible  might, 
would  resound  to  the  tramp  of  another  army  of 
Irish  —  equally  fearless  and  potent.  At  the  call 
of  Christ,  they  left  their  loved  homes,  bravely 
mingled  with  those  onrushing  hordes,  subdued  their 
fierceness,  and  brought  them  into  the  fold  of  Christ. 
They  helped  to  soften  the  savage  heart  of  Goth  and 
Hun,  and  to  lay  the  foundations  of  the  civilization 
of  Christ,  that,  like  a  leaven,  was  to  penetrate  and 
uplift  the  whole  earth. 

They  rallied  round  Rome  and  St.  Peter,  for 
fidelity  to  the  Holy  See  has  always  been  a  character- 
istic of  Irish  faith.  No  heresy  has  even  taken  root 
in  Irish  soil.  The  nation  has  ever  been  loyal  to 
him  who  is  the  representative  of  Christ  on  earth,  to 
him  who  sits  on  the  throne  of  St.  Peter.  Ireland 
has  always  been  mindful  of  those  words  of  St. 
Patrick — "  If  you  wish  to  be  of  Christ  you  must  be 
of  Rome." 

Venerable  Bede  testifies  that  numbers  were  com- 
ing daily  into  Britain,  preaching  the  Word  of  God 

[36] 


THE  EXODUS 

with  great  devotion,  and  Eric  of  Auxerre  writes 
from  France  — "  What  shall  I  say  of  Ireland,  which, 
despising  the  dangers  of  the  deep,  is  migrating  with 
her  whole  train  of  philosophers  to  our  coasts." 

St.  Bernard  writes  — "  From  Ireland,  as  from  an 
overflowing  stream,  crowds  of  holy  men  descended 
on  foreign  nations."  This  stream  flowed  as  far 
east  as  Egypt,  and  as  far  west  as  Greenland  and 
Labrador. 

Such  was  the  first  exodus  of  the  Irish.  Centuries 
passed,  and  God  permitted  the  scourge  of  persecu- 
tion to  fall  upon  the  nation,  and  the  second  exodus 
began,  an  exodus  that  sent  the  Irish  fleeing  for 
refuge  to  every  part  of  the  world. 

The  cause  of  the  second  exodus  is  to  be  found 
in  the  enmity  that  they  incurred  because  of  their 
undying  love  and  fidelity  to  the  Leader  in  whose 
ranks  they  had  enrolled  themselves,  and  of  their 
unswerving  allegiance  to  His  Church.  The  blood 
of  Erin's  children  stained  her  bosom,  and  they  were 
torn  from  her  heart,  because  they  clung  to  their 
faith,  their  heritage  from  St.  Patrick,  and  never  for 
one  instant  would  they  allow  that  precious  jewel  to 
be  wrested  from  them.  Out  of  the  sea  on  every 
side  came  death  to  them  —  death  swift,  fearful,  and 
appalling,  threatening  them  if  they  gave  not  up  their 
treasure.  They  lookeJ  to  their  God  and  laughed 
in  the  face  of  that  Lath.  Fire  and  sword  ravaged 
the  land,  and  theix  blood  ran  like  water,  but  through 
it  all  the  Mass  bell  ever  tinkled  in  the  lonely  moun- 

[37] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

tain  valley,  and  the  catechism  was  learned  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  hedge. 

Pestilence  and  famine  lay  like  a  pall  over  Ireland, 
and  from  beneath  the  blackness  her  poor  children 
fled  in  terror. 

This  exodus  was  the  scattering  broadcast  of  a 
crucified  nation. 

When  the  ships,  shadowed  by  pestilence,  crept 
across  the  Atlantic,  and  threw  them  dead  and 
dying  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World,  great- 
hearted Canada,  worthy  daughter  of  France,  took 
them  to  her  heart.  And  when,  despite  all  her  care, 
the  parents  died  by  thousands,  she  guarded  as  a  sec- 
ond mother  the  orphan  children.  It  was  only  one 
of  many  touching  instances  of  charity  that  was  seen 
one  Sunday  morning  before  Mass  in  the  chapel  of 
a  Canadian  town.  The  French  priest  came  on  to 
the  sanctuary,  carrying  a  baby  in  his  arms,  and 
followed  by  twenty-four  little  children,  who  stood 
bewildered  before  the  altar. 

"  My  people,"  he  cried  in  his  native  tongue,  "  see 
these  poor  children,  the  orphans  of  our  Irish 
Catholics!  Who,  in  the  name  of  God,  will  guard 
them?  "  Scarce  had  he  ceased,  than  the  congrega- 
tion rose  en  masse,  rushed  to  the  altar,  and  the  little 
ones  were  enfolded  by  strong  arms  and  held  against 
loving  hearts  that  took  them  for  their  own. 

Many  of  the  leaders  in  American  life  are  Irish, 
who  as  orphans  were  reared  in  the  sanctuary  of 
Canada's  Catholic  homes.  And  they  have  ever 
gloried   in  their   origin,   and  never   forgotten   their 

[38] 


THE  EXODUS 

debt  to  Canada.  It  is  but  a  few  years  since  that 
they  met  and  erected  a  monument  to  commemorate 
both. 

To-day  the  traveler  up  the  St.  Lawrence  sees 
that  monument  before  him  on  Grosse  Isle.  It  is 
an  immense  Celtic  cross  with  a  great  carved  figure 
of  Christ,  that  looks  down  in  sorrow  to  where  at  its 
feet  12,000  poor  Irish  exiles  lie  buried.  It  is  a 
fitting  memorial,  because  they  suffered  for  the  cross, 
and  they  triumphed  through  the  cross.  For, 
whether  the  Irish  exiles  sleep  under  the  Canadian 
maple  or  African  palm,  or  at  the  world's  end  under 
the  golden  wattle  of  Australia  or  the  crimson  rata 
of  New  Zealand,  over  them  all  swings  the  Mass  bell, 
ringing  above  the  altars  that  they  have  built  to  the 
God  of  Freedom  and  Justice. 

Near  to  home,  or  far  from  home,  matters  not  — 
the  spirit  of  the  cross  always  animated  them. 

This  was  the  spirit  that  burned  in  the  breast  of 
the  Irish  woman  who,  fleeing  from  the  famine,  was 
shipwrecked  on  the  south  coast  of  England.  She 
found  employment  as  washerwoman  to  the  family 
of  a  squire  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  noticed 
that  once  a  month  she  left  her  little  room  on  Satur- 
day evening,  and  did  not  return  until  the  small  hours 
of  Monday  morning.  Questioned,  she  said  that 
she  had  walked  to  Mass  at  the  nearest  church, 
nearly  thirty  miles  away-  The  two  sisters  of  the 
squire  were  insistent  that  the  Papist  should  be 
dismissed. 

"  No,"   he  answered  bluffly,   "  you   are  educated 

[39] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

women,  and  she  is  only  an  ignorant  Irish  woman; 
go  and  convert  her." 

Then  began  a  campaign  with  tracts  and  appeals 
as  ammunition.  '  It  waged  long  and  vigorously;  but 
the  good  Irish  woman  met  argument  by  argument, 
and  false  ideas  with  fact,  threw  all  the  tracts  un- 
read on  the  top  of  a  tall  cupboard,  and  prayed 
earnestly  that  her  well-meaning  employers  would 
be  given  the  grace  to  see  the  light.  In  the  end 
both  became  Catholics.  The  squire  was  so  struck 
at  the  pluck  of  the  hard-worked  woman  walking 
nearly  sixty  miles  for  Mass,  that  he  studied  the  re- 
ligion that  produced  such  self-sacrifice,  and  he,  too, 
became  a  Catholic,  and  all  his  family.  His  eldest 
son  became  a  famous  Jesuit  metaphysician;  and  to- 
day, from  the  lawn  of  the  family  residence,  the  spires 
of  three  Catholic  churches  are  to  be  seen  where 
formerly  not  one  existed. 

And  distance  is  powerless  to  dim  the  flame  of 
this  spirit.  The  wife  of  the  first  Catholic  settler 
in  New  Zealand  was  a  Wexford  woman.  When 
her  first  child  was  born,  over  a  thousand  miles  of 
one  of  the  stormiest  seas  in  the  world  rolled  between 
her  and  the  nearest  church.  Undaunted,  she  em- 
barked in  a  small  vessel,  and  carried  her  baby  from 
Auckland  to  Sydney  for  baptism. 

But  ah !  Who  dare  try  to  tell  of  the  grief  that 
this  exodus  caused  to  Ireland! 

"  Won't  you  dip  your  pen  in  your  heart,  when 
you  write  of  Holy  Ireland?  "  came  a  message  to  me 
yesterday;  but  no  heart  save  the  Sacred  Heart  of 

[40] 


THE  EXODUS 

our  Christ  can  realize  the  weight  of  Ireland's  cen- 
turies of  sorrow.  We  see  individual  manifestations 
of  it,  but  they  are  as  wavelets  on  an  ocean,  telling  of 
dark  depths  unseen. 

I  was  waiting  one  morning  at  a  railway  station 
in  the  west  of  Ireland.  The  American  boat  train 
was  just  due.  One  group  on  the  platform  attracted 
my  attention.  By  the  side  of  her  luggage  stood  a 
tall  young  girl  of  about  twenty  years  of  age,  evi- 
dently leaving  her  homeland.  Around  her  were  her 
father  and  mother  and  two  brothers.  They  waited 
with  heavy  hearts  for  the  coming  of  the  train  that 
was  to  bear  their  loved  one  from  them.  She  bore 
up  bravely,  and  talked  earnestly  now  with  one,  now 
with  another  of  the  group. 

Suddenly  the  sharp  whistle  of  the  approaching 
train  was  heard.  The  poor  girl's  courage  gave  way, 
and  with  a  long-drawn  sob  she  threw  herself  into 
her  mother's  arms,  who  clasped  her  to  her  heart. 
The  two  sons,  having  placed  the  luggage  on  board, 
came  running  back,  and  with  kindly  strength  forced 
the  mother's  arms  apart,  and  from  that  refuge  the 
daughter,  with  tears  streaming,  was  forced  into  a 
carriage.  The  mother,  in  a  frenzy  of  grief,  threw 
herself  on  a  seat  close  by,  bowing  her  head  on  her 
hands. 

But  the  most  pathetic  figure  of  all  was  the  poor 
father.  He  had  stood  bravely  by  as  she  said  fare- 
well to  her  brothers.  He  had  managed  to  smile  as 
she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  unfalter- 
ingly gave  her  a  hearty — "  God  and  Mary  go  with 

[41] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

you  wherever  you  be,"  but  as  he  saw  the  train  move 
off,  with  his  daughter,  her  face  convulsed  with  grief, 
calling  her  farewell,  the  deep  sorrow  that  had  been 
eating  at  his  heart  burst  forth.  He  made  as  though 
to  run  after  the  moving  train,  but  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  fell  on  his  knees.  Raising  his  arms  aloft, 
he  cried  aloud  to  God,  heedless  of  the  many  eyes 
bent  on  him  in  pity.  'My  last  glimpse  of  that  sta- 
tion is  burned  on  my  memory  —  the  quivering  form 
of  the  inconsolable  mother  huddled  on  the  bench 
where  she  had  cast  herself,  the  two  sons  standing 
near  the  mother,  and,  kneeling  on  the  gravel,  with 
hands  raised  in  grief,  the  poor  father  crying  un- 
restrainedly. 

Multiply  that  scene  ten  thousand  fold,  and  you 
will  have  but  a  slight  conception  of  the  shadow  that 
clouds  the  door  of  so  many  of  God's  faithful  Irish. 

Some  years  afterwards  I  crossed  on  one  of  the 
great  liners  that  ply  between  Ireland  and  America. 
There  were  nearly  eight  hundred  of  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Erin  on  board.  As  we  went  racing 
westward,  Mass  was  celebrated  each  morning,  and 
before  the  voyage  was  ended,  almost  without  ex- 
ception every  one  partook  of  the  comfort  of  the 
afflicted  —  the  Sacred  Body  of  Christ.  The  exile 
has  his  God  with  him  as  he  kneels  above  the  mighty 
engine  that  is  whirling  below,  every  throb  of  which 
finds  an  echoing  throb  of  sorrow  in  his  heart,  for  it 
means  that  he  is  farther  from  Ireland.  But  his 
pain  is  soothed,  and  strength  flows  in  upon  his 
stricken  soul,  as  he  clasps  his  hands  in  reverent  ado- 

[42] 


THE  EXODUS 

ration  and  places  all  his  grief  upon  the  altar  of  his 
God. 

When  we  were  threading  our  way  through  the 
maze  of  shipping  that  makes  the  harbor  of  New 
York  the  busiest  in  the  world,  I  saw  one  of  my 
friends  sitting  crying  on  the  little  trunk  that  con- 
tained all  her  earthly  possessions.  She  was  afraid 
of  the  mighty  city  that  roared  before  her,  and  shrank 
from  it  in  dismay. 

Two  days  afterwards  I  entered  a  church  in  that 
city,  and  saw  kneeling  at  the  rails  my  frightened 
friend  of  the  ship.  I  asked  her  if  she  were  more 
reconciled  now.  "  Yes,  father,"  she  replied,  point- 
ing as  she  did  so  to  the  tabernacle,  "  Our  Lord  is 
here,  and  I  can  talk  to  Him,  so  I'm  not  lonely  now." 

No  sea  is  too  wide  for  Celtic  love,  and  with  it  they 
have  bridged  the  world,  setting  it  in  harmony  to 
the  soft  beating  of  the  sanctuary  bell. 


[43] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    MASS    ROCK 

IV/TANY  of  the  children  of  Ireland  as  the  cen- 
<*-*-*•  turies  passed  were  enrolled  in  the  glorious 
army  of  the  church  triumphant.  Yet,  strange  to 
tell,  during  the  twelve  hundred  years  that  elapsed 
after  the  death  of  St.  Patrick  there  was  one  part 
of  the  army  of  the  saints  that  had  no  member  from 
Ireland.  Apostles,  bishops,  confessors,  and  virgins 
innumerable  were  hers;  but  among  the  host  that 
gathered  round  St.  Patrick  in  heaven  through  all 
those  years  there  stood  not  one  Irish  martyr. 

The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  Ireland  had  taken 
to  her  kindly  heart  the  gift  of  St.  Patrick  and 
guarded  it  in  loving  charity  through  the  ages.  With 
the  almost  magic  power  that  she  possesses  of  draw- 
ing to  herself  elements  the  most  diverse,  she  cast  the 
seeds  of  faith  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  came  to 
dwell  within  her  walls.  "  The  Irish  Celts,"  says 
Froude,  "  possess  on  their  own  soil  a  power  greater 
than  any  known  family  of  mankind  of  assimilating 
those  who  venture  among  them  to  their  own  image. 
Light-hearted,  humorous,  imaginative,  susceptible 
through  the  whole  range  of  feeling,  from  the  pro- 
foundest  feeling  to  the  most  playful  jest,  passionate 
in    their    patriotism,    passionate    in    their    religion, 

[44] 


THE  MASS  ROCK 

passionately  courageous,  passionately  loyal  and  af- 
fectionate." 

This  people  eagerly  seized  the  gift  of  God,  and 
gave  to  the  world  such  an  example  of  its  divine 
effects,  that  all  to  whom  they  offered  it  grasped  it 
eagerly  and  lovingly.  Thus  it  came  that  the  ages 
rolled  by  and  in  this  kindly  soil  the  church  grew  in 
peace  until  God  in  His  inscrutable  providence  per- 
mitted persecution  to  come. 

None  of  her  children,  with  the  exception  of 
Odran,  St.  Patrick's  charioteer,  had  stood  in  the 
red-robed  army  of  martyrs;  now  she  was  to  stand 
before  God,  a  nation  offered  in  holocaust.  The 
church  whose  foundations  had  been  laid  in  peace, 
and  which  had  grown  in  charity  to  glorious  strength, 
was  now  to  have  the  scattered  stones  of  her  altars 
reddened  with  the  blood  of  her  martyred  children. 

A  persecution  of  awful  fury  burst  upon  her,  and 
well  did  she  prove  that  the  triumph  of  truth  is 
secured  by  the  death  of  the  martyr.  Heresy  smote 
where  paganism  spared.  Torn  by  the  scourge,  she 
grew,  as  did  the  Church  of  the  Catacombs,  to  en- 
during maturity.  As  the  oak,  lashed  by  the  scream- 
ing wind,  does  but  strike  its  roots  deeper  and  bind 
itself  more  closely  to  mother  earth,  its  source  of 
strength,  so  Ireland,  torn  by  scourge  of  hate,  but 
clung  the  closer  to  God,  the  fount  of  consolation. 
And  as  the  tree,  under  the  stress  of  storm  and  chill, 
with  branches  broken  and  leaves  all  whirled  about, 
shrivels  to  seeming  death,  till  the  advent  of  another 
spring  finds  it  standing  more  sturdily  and  more  richly 

[45] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

clad  than  before;  so  Ireland,  standing  stark  beneath 
the  darkness  of  the  winter  of  death,  but  took  on  a 
new  strength  with  the  passing  of  the  storm,  and  rose 
to  a  fuller,  stronger  life,  vivified  by  the  blood  of  her 
martyrs. 

The  storm  raged  long  and  furiously,  but  the 
courage  of  her  martyrs  triumphed  over  all,  and  in 
the  end  gained  peace^  and  toleration.  Her  super- 
human steadiness  of  purpose  brought  shame  to  the 
cheek  of  the  sister  who  smote  her  so  cruelly,  and  the 
flame  of  fanaticism  sank  and  died. 

To-day  the  light  of  truth  is  burning  so  brightly 
that  the  misunderstandings  begot  of  ignorance  are 
fast  vanishing,  and  the  path  is  being  made  clear  to 
a  union  of  hearts.  England  is  perceiving  the  great 
qualities  of  her  sister,  her  goodness  —  her  strength 
of  faith,  her  grasp  of  the  supernatural.  England 
has  an  innate  reverence  of  God  and  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  morality  and  for  religion,  and  of  her  nature 
must,  as  she  recognizes  them,  admire  the  ideals  of 
Ireland.  Marveling  at  the  tenacity  with  which  the 
latter  followed  the  beckoning  hand  of  Christ  until 
she  stood  triumphant  beside  Him,  many  in  England 
to-day  are  turning  to  their  long-despised  sister,  as  if 
they  feel  that  the  fulfillment  of  her  destiny,  namely, 
the  regaining  of  her  lost  title  of  "  Mary's  Dowry," 
will  be  made  through  the  assistance  and  prayers'  of 
Ireland. 

And  it  is  Ireland's  steadfast  valor  that  has  won 
this  admiration.  Laws  were  enacted  that  aimed  at 
the  systematic  degradation  of  the  nation:      Christ's 

[46] 


THE  MASS  ROCK 

loved  ones  were  denied  the  right  to  live,  and  dying, 
their  children  were  to  be  entrusted  to  those  of  an 
alien  faith;  priest  and  schoolmaster  were  felons  out- 
lawed and  hunted  —  yet  ever  and  always  the  nation 
stood  steadfast  for  the  honor  of  God  and  the  honor 
of  Ireland. 

Wicked  men  boasted  that  they  would  not  leave 
one  priest  alive  in  Ireland  and  that  not  a  Catholic 
would  be  seen.  In  pursuance  of  this  policy  they 
ravaged  the  whole  land,  harrying,  burning,  enslav- 
ing, and  killing.  Banished  to  the  mountains  and 
morasses  of  Connaught,  from  the  farther  bank  of 
the  silent  Shannon,  the  outcasts  looked  back  on  a 
smoking  land,  trembling  beneath  the  tramp  of  the 
destroyer.  Ireland — "the  little  black  rose" — is 
black  in  reality  now  —  black  with  the  moan  of  the 
orphan  and  the  falling  tear  of  the  widow. 

God  permitted  this,  that  Ireland  might  pass 
through  the  darkness  to  the  light  of  fuller  fruition. 
To  reach  Easter  Sunday  and  Olivet  she  had  to  face 
Good  Friday  and  Calvary. 

And  bravely  she  shouldered  her  cross! 

Did  the  shepherds  sentenced  to  banishment  or 
death  desert  their  stricken  flocks  and  leave  them  to 
face  death  alone?  An  answer  to  that  question  is 
written  on  every  league  of  Erin's  soil,  telling  the 
reader  how  the  good  shepherd  gave  his  life  for  his 
sheep. 

Why  does  the  traveler,  at  that  sharp  turn  of  the 
road  in  leafy  King's  County,  raise  his  hat  as  he 
passes  the  withered  tree  that  overhangs  the  path? 

[47] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Ask  him,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  it  is  known  for 
miles  around  as  "  the  priest's  tree,"  because  from 
its  branches,  in  the  dark  days,  a  priest  hung —  dead. 
One  of  that  noble  band,  good  shepherds  all,  he  had 
laid  down  his  life  for  his  sheep. 

Everywhere  these  heroes  were  working.  Glen- 
dalough  in  the  east  echoed  to  their  prayers  at  the 
shrine  of  St.  Kevin,  and  in  the  west  every  valley 
in  Kerry  — "  wild,  mountainous,  purely  popish 
Kerry  " —  guarded  a  priest.  To  picturesque  Youg- 
hal,  sitting  on  high  by  the  Blackwater,  belongs  the 
honor  of  giving  the  first  Irish  martyr,  Fr.  O'Quil- 
lian,  a  Franciscan.  He  was  not  long  alone,  for  soon 
scores  climbed  by  the  scaffold  ladder  to  stand  with 
him  in  heaven. 

Go  eastward  from  Youghal,  and  look  where  the 
green  plain  of  Waterford  slopes  up  to  the  rocky 
crest  of  the  heights  that  tower  above  the  gray  beach 
of  Tramore.  High  on  the  sloping  clifl,  in  the  center 
of  a  field,  yawns  a  pit,  sinking  down  into  darkness. 
To  the  ear  of  the  listener,  from  the  blackness  below 
comes  the  sound  of  dashing  water,  for  a  tortuous 
cave  joins  the  chasm  to  the  sea.  In  those  days, 
when  it  was  death  to  acknowledge  Christ,  the  bishop 
of  the  diocese  often  came  stealing  along  the  sea 
edge  in  a  small  boat,  and  entered  the  cave.  On 
a  rocky  ledge  at  the  foot  of  the  pit  he  said  Mass 
for  his  flock,  who  knelt  on  the  grass  in  the  sunlight 
above,  guarded  by  sentinels  and  guided  by  the  soft 
sound  of  the  bell  that  told  of  the  progress  of  the 
Holy  Sacrifice. 

[48] 


THE  MASS  ROCK 

Kneel  reverently  in  that  other  secret  cave  in  the 
mountains  of  Monaghan,  and  look  on  those  cold, 
silent  walls  of  gray  rock.  Picture  to  yourself  the 
tragedy  enacted  there,  on  the  day  when  the  priest 
stood  before  that  shelf  of  rock,  beginning  Mass  for 
the  faithful  who  kneel  around.  See  the  start  of 
terror  when  dense  volumes  of  black  smoke  come 
pouring  in,  choking  and  stifling.  Hear  the  last  ab- 
solution of  the  priest,  the  gasping  moans  of  the 
dying.  Mark  the  inrush  of  the  persecutors  —  the 
massacre  of  the  fifteen  still  surviving  and  their 
vested  priest.  Kneel  in  that  silent  shrouded  cave, 
people  it  with  the  forms  of  those  dead  heroes,  and 
thank  God  for  the  honor  that  is  yours  in  visiting  this 
antechamber  of  heaven. 

Leave  the  mountains  of  the  north  and  travel  east- 
ward. Climb  to  where,  on  the  hill  in  Drogheda, 
Christ  has  a  home  in  the  Dominican  convent.  Enter 
the  holy  house,  where  the  white-robed  daughters  of 
St.  Dominic  spend  their  lives  in  prayer  and  work. 
Kneel  once  again  as  the  silver  shrine  swings  open, 
for  the  face,  tranquil  in  death,  upon  which  you  look 
is  the  hallowed  one  of  the  martyred  primate,  the 
Venerable  Oliver  Plunkett. 

Southward,  and  you  tread  the  mountains  and 
valleys  of  Dublin,  Wicklow,  and  Wexford,  whose 
recesses  sheltered  the  proscribed  priests.  Think  of 
the  sufferings  of  that  brave  soggarth,  who,  hunted 
through  these  mountains,  at  last  took  refuge  in  the 
center  of  a  shaking  bog.  He  built  there  a  little 
shelter   of  branches   of   trees   plastered  with  mud. 

[49] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

His  only  furniture  was  a  handful  of  straw  that  was 
always  wet,  either  from  the  rain  above  or  the  water 
below.  This  warrior  was  eighty  years  of  age  and 
from  this  refuge  he  guided  and  fed  his  flock. 

In  these  mountains,  too,  once  lurked  a  fighter  for 
Christ  whose  story  is  recorded  thus:  "Timothy 
Sullivan  kept  a  school  in  Dublin  .  .  .  and  com- 
mitted the  crime  of  converting  two  students  of 
Trinity  College  to  Popery  .  .  .  was  transported, 
but  returned,  and  is  now  teaching  school  in  a  little 
town  in  Limerick."  This  great-souled  Sullivan  had 
many  compeers,  and  oh,  how  they  clung  to  oppressed 
Ireland,  giving  their  lives  freely  for  her. 

In  vain  the  spoilers  tore  down  the  altar  and 
trampled  under  foot  the  sacred  emblem  of  our  Re- 
demption. They  but  made  the  land  a  vast  God's 
Acre,  whence  through  the  centuries  the  dead  have 
ever  prayed  in  the  spirit  of  their  leader,  "  Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

Well  might  the  great  French  bishop,  Dupanloup, 
speaking  of  them,  say,  "  Surely  the  nations  of 
Europe  and  humanity  itself  have  reason  to  be  proud 
of  the  Irish  race.  I  know  no  people  around  whom 
their  patriotism,  their  pure  morals,  their  courageous 
faith,  their  unconquerable  fidelity,  their  bravery 
.  .  .  and  all  these  noble  qualities,  though  ever 
persecuted,  never  cast  down,  exalted  and  crowned 
by  misfortune,  have  thrown  a  halo  more  captivating 
and  more  sorrowful." 

There  are  many  glorious  monuments  to-day  in 
Ireland  that  speak  eloquently  of  her  sufferings  in 

[So] 


THE  MASS  ROCK 

those  dark  days  —  days  when  Christ's  enemies  tore 
the  sacred  altar  asunder,  scattered  the  protecting 
walls  and  washed  them  in  the  blood  of  priests  and 
people,  knowing  not  in  their  blindness  that  they 
were  fighting  against  Him,  "  cujus  regni  non  erit 
finis."  But  of  these  monuments,  telling  of  the 
superhuman  steadiness  with  which  the  brave  dead 
followed  Christ,  to  me  by  far  the  most  touching  is 
the  granite  block,  a  broad  table  of  gray  stone,  with 
the  sacred  name  of  Jesus  carved  deep  upon  it;  that 
silent  table,  clasped  firmly  by  the  green  turf  and  held 
close,  as  a  treasure,  to  her  bosom, —  Ireland's  price- 
less Mass  Rock. 

When  they  fled  to  the  hills  —  priests  and  people 
—  they  carried  God  with  them.  No  tabernacle  now 
has  He  save  His  own  blue  canopy  —  no  altar  but  the 
Corrig  an  Affrin  —  the  Mass  Rock. 

No  tabernacle  did  I  say!  Oh!  I  am  wrong. 
Watch  the  mountain  Mass  and  see.  The  priest 
bends  and  speaks  the  miraculous  words  of  Christ, 
and  He  is  in  their  midst.  The  priest  turns,  and, 
holding  God  aloft,  cries  to  the  kneeling  multitude  — 
"  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God,  behold  Him  who  taketh 
away  the  sins  of  the  world,"  and  then  cries  to  Christ 
Himself — "Lord,  I  am  not  worthy  that  Thou 
shouldst  enter  under  my  roof,  say  but  the  word  and 
my  soul  shall  be  healed." 

Poor  Soggarth,  he  has  no  roof  to  bring  Christ 
beneath,  no  resting-place  for  Him  but  his  own  heart 
of  gold;  and  how  willingly  Christ  entered  that  none 
but  God  knows. 

[51] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

The  words  go  out  on  the  morning  air  and  find  an 
echo  in  every  poor  outcast  heart  —  outcast  of  men, 
but  not  of  God  —  and  all  come  surging  forward  to 
the  feet  of  their  Soggarth  aroon,  and  Christ  finds 
a  tabernacle  once  again  —  a  tabernacle  in  each  loyal 
Irish  heart  that  there  braves  death  itself  through  its 
overmastering  love  for  Him. 

Corrig  an  Affirm!  the  Mass  Rock! 

Where  can  earth  show  a  monument  like  it? 

What  a  history  of  love  and  sorrow  is  evoked  by 
that  word !  What  a  wealth  of  hallowed  memories 
clings  round  that  loved  title !  What  a  tragic  tale 
it  tells  of  ruined  altars,  and  ruined  homes!  God 
homeless  and  His  people  homeless,  yet  God  at  home 
and  His  people  at  home  as  they  gathered  in  the  dark 
and  the  cold  round  the  Rock  of  the  Mass ! 

Ah,  Rock  of  the  Mass!  thou  hast  seen  this  land 
red  with  the  ruin  of  war  and  black  with  the  cloud 
of  pestilence ! 

Rock  of  the  Mass !  thou  hast  seen  the  gaunt 
specter  of  famine  stalk  across  the  plain,  and  the  dark 
pall  of  death  lying  low  upon  the  land,  but  ever  and 
always,  O  Rock  of  the  Mass,  didst  thou  feel  the 
touch  of  the  lips  of  the  brave  Soggarth  and  hear  the 
murmured  prayers  of  the  stricken  ones  as  all  bent 
before  their  God  enthroned  on  thy  broad  bosom! 

From  cave  to  cave  on  the  hill-side,  along  the  hol- 
lows of  the  mountains,  through  the  tree  clusters  on 
the  plain,  went  the  word,  with  the  swiftness  and 
silence  of  light,  "  Corrig  an  Affrin  at  dawn  to-mor- 
row " ;  and  from  the  caves,  and  from  the  hollows, 

[52] 


THE  MASS  ROCK 

and  from  the  trees  came  a  silent  multitude,  creeping 
and  stumbling  through  the  darkness  to  where  by  thy 
side  awaited  them  the  only  two  friends  they  had  on 
earth  —  their  priest  and  their  God. 

Round  thee,  O  Rock  of  the  Mass,  no  cloud  of 
incense  floats,  no  pealing  organ  sounds,  no  blaze  of 
holy  light;  no  incense  but  the  mountain  mist  —  no 
sound  but  the  whisper  of  the  passing  breeze,  sighing 
in  the  bracken;  no  light  but  that  of  God's  own  stars, 
looking  down  on  stricken  Ireland. 

But  little  recked  they  who  were  gathered  round 
thee,  O  Rock  of  the  Mass!  They  heard  the  soft 
beating  of  myriad  angel  wings  that  hovered  above 
the  Creator,  and  they  felt  the  warm  glow  of  divine 
love  that  burned  for  them  in  the  Sacred  Heart  of 
Jesus. 

How  our  hearts  thrill  with  pride  and  our  pulses 
quicken  as  we  gaze  at  this  monument  of  triumph  and 
death  —  a  monument  telling  of  generations  of  in- 
domitable martyrs! 

Gaze  at  that  dark  stain  on  the  gray  stone.  Oh, 
how  it  speaks  to  us  of  the  lonely  mountain  in  the 
silent  dawn,  the  shadowy  forms  gathering  and 
crouching  on  the  grass,  the  priest  holding  God  aloft, 
the  loud  cry  of  alarm  sounding  through  the  gloom 
from  the  posted  sentries;  the  low  moan  of  misery 
from  the  broken-hearted  kneelers,  the  flash  of  the 
musket,  the  priest  lying  across  the  stone,  dyeing  it 
with  his  life-blood  —  still  clasping  the  chalice  to  his 
breast  —  dead. 

There    thou   liest,    O    Rock   of   the    Mass,   most 

[53] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

splendid  of  Ireland's  treasures;  an  imperishable 
monument,  telling  of  Ireland's  sorrow  and  of  Ire- 
land's glory!  For  thou,  O  holy  Rock  of  the  Mass, 
art  the  Calvary  of  Ireland! 


[54] 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHRISTMAS    IN    IRELAND 

CHRISTMAS  in  Ireland  means  that  the  whole 
land  thrills  with  the  delight  of  giving  a  glorious 
welcome  to  the  Lord  of  the  Land.  Christ,  the 
Friend  of  everybody,  is  coming,  and  His  must  be  a 
royal  welcome.  None  so  lowly  but  may  join,  and 
a  wave  of  peace  and  goodwill  sweeps  across  the 
country.  The  cold  of  winter  grips  the  earth,  but  it 
is  unheeded  by  the  warm  hearts  of  those  whose 
thoughts  all  turn  in  joyful  anticipation  to  the  coming 
of  the  Christ  Child,  while  hands  are  busy  preparing 
for  the  feast  day. 

On  Christmas  Eve  a  multitude  of  new  stars  blazes 
from  coast  to  coast  of  Ireland.  They  shine  on  the 
wind-swept  hills  of  Iar  Connacht;  they  twinkle 
above  the  surges  of  Donegal  and  in  the  soft  shadows 
of  Wicklow  woods;  they  line  the  banks  of  the  broad 
Shannon  from  sea  to  source  and  mark  the  course  of 
the  Blackwater.  Single  stars  cast  radiance  upon 
every  winding  path  on  mountain  and  hill,  clusters  of 
them  light  every  crossroads  and  village,  constella- 
tions blaze  in  every  town  and  city.  On  every  sea 
cape,  by  every  stream  and  lake,  amid  the  mountains 
and  on  the  plains,  they  gleam  through  the  dusk  — 
the  Irish  stars  of  Christmas,  the  great  Christmas 
candle  shining  in  the  window  of  every  home,  light- 

issl 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

ing  the  land  for  the  angels  to  guide  the  Christ  Child 
thither. 

The  candle,  beneath  a  bower  of  holly,  is  placed 
in  the  window  to  light  in  charity  the  path  of  the 
wayfarer.  Tradition  relates,  too,  that  Christ  and 
His  Mother  are  wandering  abroad  to-night,  home- 
less and  weary,  and  every  door  is  thrown  wide  open 
to  tell  the  Wanderers  of  the  welcome  and  warmth 
and  love  that  await  them  if  they  will  but  cross  the 
threshold.  The  whole  nation  thus  makes  loving 
reparation  for  the  insult  of  the  closed  doors  of 
Bethlehem.  But  there  is  a  reparation  of  good 
works  made  also,  for  all  wayfarers  receive  a  wel- 
come and  a  double  alms  at  Christmas  time. 

Almsgiving  is  always  an  act  of  love  in  Ireland,  and 
it  is  especially  so  now.  A  special  feature  of  the 
season  is  the  effort  that  is  made  to  bring  comfort 
and  brightness  into  the  lives  of  the  poor  —  Christ's 
poor,  as  they  are  called.  It  is  a  common  custom 
for  a  family  to  give  a  dinner  and  good  clothing  to  a 
man,  a  woman,  and  a  child  who  are  in  need,  in 
honor  of  the  Holy  Family.  The  little  school-chil- 
dren, led  by  the  gentle  nuns,  take  their  part  in  this 
national  almsgiving;  and  recreation  hours,  for  weeks 
before,  are  willingly  devoted  to  the  making  of 
clothes  for  the  poorer  brethren. 

Let  us  look  into  an  Irish  home  at  nightfall  on 
Christmas  Eve.  When  the  Christmas  candle  is  lit 
and  placed  in  its  green  bower  in  the  window  recess, 
the  head  of  the  house  sprinkles  holy  water,  first 
upon  the  candle,  and  then  upon  the  members  of  the 

[56] 


CHRISTMAS  IN  IRELAND 

family.  All  then  kneel  before  it  to  recite  the 
rosary.  The  whole  land  is  filled  with  the  sound  of 
prayer  —  a  fitting  greeting  for  our  Lord  and  our 
Lady.  All  who  could  have  come  back  to  the  old 
home.  From  distant  parts  of  Ireland,  from  Eng- 
land, from  Scotland,  multitudes  come  hurrying  to 
spend  Christmas  at  home.  Leaving  behind  the 
glare  of  the  city,  they  hasten  to  where  the  old  folk 
await  them  with  a  blessing  and  a  welcome  that  none 
other  can  give,  under  the  roof  of  the  old  home  whose 
place  in  the  heart  can  never  be  usurped. 

But  there  are,  alas!  many  vacant  places,  for  many 
exiles  have  wandered  far  afield  —  too  far  to  return 
and  join  in  the  Christmas  rosary.  But  the  absent 
ones  are  present  in  the  minds  of  all,  and  as  the 
mother,  caressing  each  bead,  lovingly  calls  them  by 
name  and  commends  them  to  God,  the  chorus  of 
prayer  swells  with  added  fervor,  for  hearts  are 
moved,  and  eyes  glisten  with  emotion. 

Those  vacant  chairs  in  the  rosary  circle  of  an  Irish 
home!  What  a  tale  is  theirs!  They  tell  of  the 
wild  grief  of  parting,  the  brave  venturing  into  the 
unknown,  the  sad  heart  ever  turning  home  —  aye, 
and  the  sad  heart  in  that  home  ever  grieving  for  the 
absent  ones. 

On  Arctic  icefields,  from  Nome  to  the  Yukon, 
on  the  Pampas  of  Argentina,  beneath  the  warm  sun 
of  Australasia,  those  wanderers  move,  but  on 
Christmas  Eve  their  thoughts  go  back  across  the 
years,  and  memory  touches  with  brush  of  gold  the 
rosary  group  of  Christmas  Eve  in  the  old  home. 

[57] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

How  the  recollection  stirs  their  hearts  !  Distance 
is  annihilated,  time  is  turned  back  in  its  course,  as 
they  set  off  for  Ireland.  From  all  lands  and  over 
all  seas  they  come,  these  unseen  visitants.  Borne 
on  the  wings  of  love,  guided  by  memory,  in  thought 
they  come  to  the  land  of  their  boyhood.  Up  the 
mountain-sides,  down  the  valleys,  by  stream  and  cal- 
low, boreen  and  canal/ they  glide  across  the  land. 
No  glen  so  remote,  no  shielding  so  hidden,  no  moun- 
tain path  so  faint  but  that  they  find  their  way  with 
ease.  Old  or  young,  rich  or  poor,  matters  not  for 
those  who  march  in  the  numberless  legions  of  the 
absent  Irish  on  Christmas  Eve  —  for  all  are  young, 
and  all  are  rich  —  young  with  renewed  youth,  and 
rich  in  the  possession  of  God  and  country. 

How  each  hurries  to  cross  once  more  the  sacred 
threshold.  There  is  the  old  familiar  road  running 
ahead,  as  if  it  existed  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  reach  the  branching  boreen  that  leads  home. 
There  is  the  fence,  behind  which  are  the  apple  trees 
of  cross-tempered,  big-hearted  old  Shawn  —  a 
fence,  alas !  that  often  proved  not  high  enough  to 
prevent  nimble  feet  and  fingers,  in  the  golden  quiet 
of  past  autumn  evenings,  scaling  to  reach  the  forbid- 
den fruit  that  dangled  too  temptingly. 

The  road  runs  on,  past  the  gap  in  the  hedge, 
through  which  the  call  of  the  nesting-birds  in  the 
trees  beyond  so  often  silenced  the  call  of  the  books 
from  the  little  schoolhouse  that,  white  in  the  star- 
light, still  sits  patiently  on  the  road-edge  beneath 
the  tree  clump. 

[58] 


CHRISTMAS  IN  IRELAND 

Past  all  these,  with  never  a  stop,  in  thought  our 
exile  goes  racing.      On  at  lightning  speed  over  the 
humpbacked  bridge  that,   steep  as  the  cantle  of  a 
Western   saddle,   spans   the   sleeping  canal;   on  be- 
tween gray  hedges  lining  silent  fields;  into  the  gloom 
of  a  fir  plantation,  round  by  the  stone  wall,  till  — 
steady  now,  only  one  more  turn  and  "  I'll  be  there." 
No   haste   now,    every   step   means   a   pleasure   not 
lightly  to  be  passed.      Memory,  slowed  by  the  pulse 
of  love,   lingers   long  on   that   last   road-stretch   of 
purest  joy.      Slowly  the  turn  is  rounded,  with  eyes 
alight  and  quickened  heart-beat,  and  yes  —  there  it 
is,  just  as  of  old,  the  center  of  the  exile's  world  — 
the  home  where  he  was  born.     The  thatched  roof 
gleams  deep  gold  above  the  dark  green  of  the  haw- 
thorn ring  in  which  it  is  set.     The  Christmas  candle 
lights  his  steps  as  in  fancy  our  exile  goes  stealing 
down   the    well-remembered   path.     A    murmur   of 
voices  from  within  fills  the  air,  and  he  halts  at  the 
window   to   drink  in  those  well-remembered  tones, 
that  have  never  ceased  making  music  in  his  heart. 
They  are  saying  the  rosary,  and  unbidden  tears  cloud 
his  eyes  as  he  hears  his  own  name  mentioned  and 
his  doings  recalled.     Then,  joy  of  all  joys,  he  rev- 
els in  the  burst  of  delight  that  fills  the  room  as  he 
lifts  the  latch  with  a  "  God  save  all  here  "  and  kneels 
in  his  vacant  place  before  the  Christmas  candle. 

They  are  all  there  —  just  as  he  left  them.  No 
use  to  tell  him  that  time  has  lined  the  once  smooth 
brow  of  mother,  that  Mary  is  a  holy  nun  for  many 
years,  that  little  James  is  a  stalwart  giant  amassing 

[59] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

a  fortune  in  the  shadow  of  the  Rockies.  Memory 
resolutely  refuses  to  change  them.  There  they  were 
and  there  they  are,  and  there  they  will  always  be. 
Time  is  powerless  to  alter  the  dream  pictures  of  mem- 
ory—  home  to  the  exile  is  always  home  as  he  left  it, 
home  unchanged,  home  untouched  by  time.  May 
time  be  powerless,  too,  to  dim  the  faith  that  sets  those 
Irish  stars  of  Bethlehem' blazing,  and  ties  the  hearts 
of  the  exiles  to  the  old  land  with  chains  of  love ! 

Those  stars  burn  through  the  hours  of  the  night 
until  they  pale  with  the  coming  of  the  dawn  —  the 
dawn  of  Christmas  Day.  All  the  land  is  wrapped 
in  wonderful  silence,  hushed  as  if  in  motionless  ex- 
pectation of  the  coming  of  the  King.  Silver  frost, 
like  a  veil  of  fairy  lace,  transforms  and  beautifies 
the  somber  browns  of  winter;  crystal  jewels  hang  on 
tree  and  heather,  and  gleam  in  lowly  valley  and  on 
towering  mountain. 

The  Mass  bells  break  the  silence  and  fill  the  land 
with  music.  In  answer  to  their  call,  through  the 
fields,  along  the  canals,  by  road  and  boreen  and 
meadow  path,  multitudes,  with  hearts  aflame,  hasten, 
as  the  shepherds  hastened  through  Judean  fields  on 
the  first  Christmas,  to  kneel  before  their  Savior. 

From  altar  rail  to  door  they  fill  the  church,  that 
stands  a  blaze  of  light  for  the  whole  country-side  to 
see  and  rejoice  at.  u  Venite  exultemus!" — the 
song  of  God's  angels,  that  filled  with  joy  the  hearts 
of  the  Judean  shepherds,  rings  out  and  fills  the 
hearts  of  these  Irish  shepherds  of  Christ  with  joy 
as  they  kneel  before   His   altar.      And  the  whole- 

[60] 


CHRISTMAS  IN  IRELAND 

souled,  unrestrained  appreciation  of  the  tremendous 
honor  that  God  is  conferring  upon  them  !  One  feels 
far  away  from  earth  and  on  the  borderland  of  heaven. 
Great  waves  of  prayer  go  rolling  through  the  church 
and  break  in  ecstasy  around  the  altar,  while  the  air 
is  filled  with  low  exclamations  of  love,  that  speak  of 
a  faith  full  of  understanding  and  devotion. 

What  mysteries  does  life  or  death  hold  for  that 
good  soul  who,  kneeling  with  clasped  hands  at  the 
altar  rail,  sees  nothing  but  the  tabernacle,  is  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  the  Sacred  Presence  there, 
and  who  prefaces  her  prayers  in  the  soft  Gaelic 
tongue  with  "  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  my  darling,  my  most  trusted  and  loyal 
Friend"?  Every  line  of  her  face,  her  intense 
eagerness,  her  passionate  devotion,  tell  of  full  knowl- 
edge of  the  Dweller  in  the  tabernacle. 

And  how  they  follow  the  Mass !  It  is  a  crescendo 
chorus  of  open-hearted  adoration,  that  reaches  its 
climax  when  the  priest  of  the  Sacrifice  speaks  the 
words  of  consecration,  and  God  comes  down  from 
heaven  and  is  enthroned  upon  the  altar.  Their  ad- 
oration is  deeply  touching  in  its  primitive  simplicity 
and  fervor.  The  air  is  vibrant  with  emotion  and 
quivers  as  if  with  a  mighty  outburst  of  applause,  felt 
rather  than  heard,  suppressed  because  of  reverence 
for  the  sanctity  of  God's  House. 

There  is  a  custom  in  some  parts  of  Ireland  at  the 
consecration  that  is  indescribably  affecting.  When 
the  warning  bell  rings,  vocal  prayer  ceases,  all  heads 
bend    low,    and    a    solemn    silence    reigns    over    all. 

[61] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

The  bell  again  rings,  telling  of  the  accomplishment 
of  the  miracle,  and  that  God  is  in  their  midst.  Then 
an  astonishing  act  takes  place.  Like  the  steady  rush 
of  a  deep  torrent,  whose  quiet  flow  hides  irresistible 
strength,  in  the  presence  of  their  divine  King,  the 
pent-up  love  of  those  adorers,  bursting  all  barriers, 
breaks  out.  The  whole  congregation,  as  one  man, 
with  swift  uplifting  of  bowed  heads,  looks  towards 
the  altar,  and,  moved  by  one  impulse,  cries  in  low 
tones  that  are  startling  in  their  dramatic  intensity, 
"  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  Lord,  a  hundred 
thousand  welcomes,  Lord  !  "  No  heart  that  has  not 
felt  it  can  imagine  the  touching  beauty  of  the  tribute. 
It  is  as  if  every  soul  present,  breaking  from  its 
earthly  body,  leaps  in  love  to  the  altar  to  kiss  the 
sacred  feet  of  the  Crucified. 

Thence  onward  their  Mass  is  an  unbroken  col- 
loquy with  Emmanuel,  God  in  their  midst,  and  a 
reverent  preparation  for  His  reception  at  Com- 
munion. At  the  sound  of  the  bell  the  whole  con- 
gregation surges  forward  to  the  communion  rail,  and 
Christ  finds  sanctuary  in  the  hearts  of  these  ardent 
adorers,  for  on  Christmas  Day  the  whole  nation 
goes  to  Communion.  All  earth  fades,  and  each  soul 
kneels  in  a  solitude,  alone  with  Christ. 

How  they  follow  the  sermon  upon  Christ's  birth 
and  sufferings,  and  expressively  show  their  sym- 
pathy! Well  can  they  understand,  for  outside  on 
the  holy  hills  of  Ireland  the  Mass  Rock  lies,  gray 
against  the  green,  telling  of  bygone  Christmas  days 
of  sacrifice  and  suffering,  days  when  Christ  came  to 

[62] 


CHRISTMAS  IN  IRELAND 

an  Ireland  more  drear  and  desolate  than  the  wind- 
swept cave  of  the  first  Christmas. 

After  Mass  there  are  the  joyous  reunions  and 
good  wishes  and  simple  joys  of  Christmas-time,  but 
the  Friend  in  the  tabernacle  is  ever  in  their  thoughts. 
All  through  the  day  in  steady  stream  they  come  to 
kneel  with  Mary  and  Joseph,  on  guard  by  the  side 
of  the  manger.  The  listening  angels  must  rejoice 
at  the  scenes  enacted  there.  Here  kneels  a  group 
of  little  children,  gazing  in  open-eyed  wonderment 
at  "  their  first  crib,"  while  mother  points  and  ex- 
plains and  prays,  and  introduces  her  baby  to  Mary 
and  her  Babe  —  the  Divine  Child  at  whose  bidding 
the  whole  universe  swings.  Beside  them,  oblivious, 
kneels  a  bent  old  saintly  soul,  whose  "  first  crib  " 
is  hidden  in  the  mists  of  ages  almost  forgotten,  and 
who,  utterly  unmindful  of  the  moving  crowd,  spends 
hour  after  hour  kneeling,  enraptured,  holding  un- 
ending colloquies  with  the  Holy  Family. 

No  chapel  so  small  or  poor  but  has  its  crib  and  its 
crowd.  Be  the  crib  one  whose  artistic  beauty  makes 
it  a  center  of  pilgrimage  from  afar,  or  one  rivalling 
in  poverty  the  first  crib  of  Bethlehem  —  it  matters 
not:  faith  reads  to  the  full  the  lessons  of  the  cave, 
and  love,  like  a  magnet,  draws  all  hearts  to  the  In- 
fant King  of  Christmas. 

May  it  ever  be  so!  May  the  hallowed  light  of 
the  Christmas  candle  ever  glow  in  Ireland,  and  may 
Ireland  always  be  a  sanctuary  where  a  nation  gives 
royal  welcome  to  its  Divine  King. 

[63] 


CHAPTER  VII 

MONTH    OF    MARY 

Tl/fAY  in  Ireland  is  the  Month  of  Mary.  Devo- 
-L*-"-  tion  to  Our  Lady 'has  always  been  a  character- 
istic of  Irish  faith,  and  the  nation  during  this  month 
honors,  in  a  special  manner,  the  Mother  of  God. 
She  is  truly  the  Mother  of  the  Nation,  and  this  is 
the  natural  sequence  of  their  strong  love  of  God,  for 
devotion  to  Mary  is  most  attractive  where  faith  is 
strongest.      Faith  loves,  heresy  hates  Mary. 

Irish  devotion  to  Mary  is  full  of  light-hearted, 
joyous  exultation,  telling  of  confidence  and  love  be- 
tween a  mother  and  her  children.  May  is  truly  the 
merrie  month  in  Ireland,  for  nature  and  grace  co- 
operate to  make  it  so.  The  whole  land  rejoices, 
brightened  by  the  smile  of  Mary.  Nature  puts  on 
her  richest  raiment  to  do  her  honor.  Through  the 
month  of  April  the  sun,  mounting  daily  higher,  sent 
deepening  tides  of  green  across  the  land.  Wave  on 
wave,  they  went  rippling  over  brown  hill  and  valley, 
till  the  country  was  filled  with  the  music  of  rustling 
leaves,  whose  shadows  danced  upon  the  grass  as 
they  felt  the  caress  of  the  breath  of  laughing  spring. 
Sleeping  nature  awoke,  and,  clad  in  beauty  at  the 
touch  of  spring's  magic  fingers,  awaited  the  com- 
ing of  May,  to  display  still  greater  fullness  of  her 
treasures. 

t64] 


MONTH  OF  MARY 

May  morning  dawns,  and  nature  in  welcome  scat- 
ters her  flowers  with  lavish  hand  upon  the  green. 
The  snow-white  wave  of  May  bloom  sweeps  from 
sea  to  sea:  the  golden  gorse  flames  on  the  hill-side: 
gentle  winds,  laden  with  the  scent  of  meadow  and 
hedge  and  tree,  move  softly  over  the  plains:  the 
songs  of  blackbird  and  thrush  and  skylark  fill  grove 
and  sky,  for  Ireland  in  May-time  is  a  paradise  of 
birds.  May  is  the  month  of  the  full  glory  of  flower 
and  field  and  wood,  and  is  fittingly  chosen  as  the 
month  of  her  who  is  the  full  glory  of  the  human 
race,  Mary,  the  Queen  of  Earth  and  Heaven. 

Into  this  land  of  song  and  beauty,  as  into  a  temple 
of  honor,  comes  Mary,  and  hers  is  a  wonderfully 
warm  welcome. 

The  mantle  of  faith  that  covers  the  land  is  em- 
broidered with  a  thousand  beauties  woven  by  love 
in  her  honor.  Mary  to  this  people  is  the  mirror 
that  gives  them  a  glimpse  of  God. 

"  Love's  mirror  doubles  Love's  caress, 
Love's  echo  to  Love's  voice  is  true. 
Their  sire  the  children  love  not  less, 
Because  they  love  a  Mother  too." 

And   none   but   has   perfect   knowledge    of   Mary's 
place  in  God's  creation. 

"  He,  He  is  King  and  He  alone, 
Who  lifts  that  Infant-hand  to  bless, 
Who  makes  His  Mother's  knee  His  throne, 
Yet  rules  the  starry  wilderness." 

[65] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

They  kneel  at  Mary's  knee  because  it  is  the  throne 
of  God,  and  send  all  their  prayers  to  Him  through 
her,  the  Mother  of  the  Judge  and  the  Mother  of 
the  sinner.  With  them,  the  Mother  is  always  with 
her  Son,  from  Bethlehem  to  Calvary,  and  the  in- 
tensity of  their  devotion  is  remarkable.  Everything 
about  her  is  sacred  —  even  her  very  name.  In  Eng- 
lish we  have  but  the  one  name  —  Mary,  and  it  is 
borne  by  saint  and  sinner  alike.  It  is  not  so  in 
the  tongue  of  the  Irish,  a  language  saturated  with 
religious  sentiment.  So  great  is  their  reverence, 
that  a  name  is  set  apa'rt  and  kept  sacred  to  her  for 
ever  —  the  name  Muire.  All  other  women  bearing 
the  name  of  their  Queen  are  called  Maire.  Of  all 
the  Irish  Marys  (and  they  are  an  uncountable  host, 
for  in  every  family  one  daughter,  at  least,  is  baptized 
Mary)    none  takes  the  sacred  name  of  Muire. 

This  warm  love  of  Mary  is  as  old  as  the  faith  in 
Ireland.  The  Irish  were  the  first  Western  nation 
to  proclaim  the  doctrine  of  the  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion, and  over  a  thousand  years  ago  a  favorite  Irish 
litany  began  thus:  "  O  great  Mary,  Mary  greatest 
of  Marys,  Most  great  of  women,  Queen  of  the 
angels,  Mistress  of  heaven,  Woman  full  of  grace, 
Honor  of  the  sky,  Breast  of  infants,  Ladder  of 
heaven."  At  the  dawn  of  each  day  through  the 
year,  the  Angelus  bell  rings  out,  recalling  to  all  the 
coming  of  Gabriel  to  announce  the  glad  tidings  to 
Mary.  At  noon,  again  it  peals  out,  and  at  the 
sound,   every  soul   turns    from   earth   to  heaven  in 

[66] 


MONTH  OF  MARY 

reverent  prayer  to  God.  The  children  playing  by 
the  roadside  fall  on  their  knees  and  clasp  their  lit- 
tle hands;  the  laborer  in  the  fields,  kneeling  with 
bared  head,  gives  thanks  for  the  coming  of  Christ 
to  Mary;  in  the  busy  schoolroom  and  in  the 
crowded  market,  everywhere  all  minds  are  centered 
on  heaven.  Again,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  when 
the  same  call  to  prayer  rings  out,  this  people  turns 
to  God  and  Mary.  All  work,  all  play,  all  speech 
ceases,  and  the  message  of  the  Angelus  rings  out 
thrice  daily  over  a  land  stilled  in  reverent  silence,  as 
the  nation  bows  in  prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  God. 

But  in  Mary's  month  their  love  of  Our  Lady 
blazes  forth  with  more  ardor  than  ever. 

On  the  opening  day  of  the  month  all  rise  early 
to  finish  daily  work,  and  then  they  set  off  to  "  make 
the  rounds  "  at  holy  well,  or  shrine  of  Our  Lady. 
"  To  make  the  rounds  "  means  a  pilgrimage  to  a 
holy  well,  the  recital  of  rosaries,  the  giving  of  alms. 
This  goes  on  from  sunrise  to  sunset  of  the  first  day, 
and  is  a  fitting  introduction  to  the  month. 

During  the  month,  all  who  can,  begin  each  day 
with  Mass  and  Communion,  and  end  it  with  Bene- 
diction of  the  Most  Blessed  Sacrament.  On  Sun- 
days, in  every  village  and  town,  Mary's  children,  with 
banner  or  statue,  walk  in  procession,  singing  hymns 
of  praise  to  her. 

May,  too,  is  the  time  of  missions,  potent  channels 
of  God's  graces.  Spring  work  is  finished,  and  the 
harvest  is  not  yet  begun;  therefore,  people  are  not 

[67] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

so  busy  as  usual.  At  these  missions,  instances  of  ex- 
traordinary faith  are  so  frequent  as  to  cease  to  be 
remarkable. 

I  have  known  good  souls  in  Donegal  to  take  their 
places  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  remain  all 
night,  to  be  able  to  go  to  confession  next  morning 
and  receive  Holy  Communion  at  Mass.  They 
spent  the  hours  in  making  the  stations  and  reciting 
the  rosary.  Many  walk  great  distances  fasting,  and 
very  often  remain  fasting  till  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  in  order  to  receive  the  Blessed  Eucharist 
—  and  all  this  with  no  thought  of  sacrifice  —  noth- 
ing but  a  holy  joy  at  the  thought  of  their  union  with 
God  fills  their  hearts. 

Every  Irish  home  has  its  May  altar.  Joyous 
bands  of  children  strip  the  fields  and  hedgerows  of 
daisies  and  primroses  and  snow-white  May  blossom; 
the  banks  of  rivers  and  brooks  are  despoiled  of  their 
violets;  water-lilies  are  gathered  from  the  ponds 
to  adorn  it.  Each  night  the  family  rosary  is  said 
before  it,  and  the  whole  family  turns  in  faith  to 
Mary  Mother.  The  bent  form  of  the  grand- 
parent, "  with  wrinkled  hands,  but  youthful  soul, 
counting  her  lip-worn  rosaries,"  kneels  beside  the 
little  child,  whose  face  shines  with  the  wondrous 
light  that  tells  of  an  untarnished  soul,  as  with  tiny 
hands  close  clasped  she  looks  in  innocence  at  the 
Mother  of  Innocence.  There  is  no  place  in  these 
hearts  for  fear  when  they  look  to  their  "  Myden 
Dheelish,"  their  "  Darling  Virgin,"  the  "  Guiding 
Wand  of  Maidens,"  "  the  Banner  of  Peace  to  save 

[68] 


MONTH  OF  MARY 

the  World."  Daughters  of  Erin  crowd  round  their 
Mother,  look  up  with  love  and  confidence  for  pro- 
tection and  guidance,  and  they  are  not  disappointed. 
This  wealth  of  spiritual  love,  that  wells  up  and 
overflows  in  Irish  hearts,  love  rooted  in  heaven, 
and  nurtured  in  reverence,  keeps  all  earthly  love 
pure  and  good.  Woman's  spiritual  worth  is  under- 
stood, Mary  stands  over  by  her  side,  and  she  is  held 
in  deep  reverence.  This  high  ideal  of  womanhood 
has  kept  the  nation  faithful  and  strong.  Listen  to 
the  testimony  of  Lecky  in  his  "  History  of  Rational- 
ism in  Europe  " : 

1  The  world  is  governed  by  its  ideals,  and  seldom 
or  never  has  there  been  one  which  has  exercised  a 
more  profound  and,  on  the  whole,  a  more  salutary 
influence  than  the  mediaeval  conception  of  the  Virgin. 
For  the  first  time  woman  was  elevated  to  her  rightful 
position.  .  .  .  Into  a  harsh  and  ignorant  and  be- 
nighted age  this  ideal  type  infused  a  conception  of 
gentleness  and  purity  unknown  to  the  proudest  gen- 
erations of  the  past.  In  the  pages  of  living  tender- 
ness which  many  a  monkish  writer  has  left  in  honor 
of  his  celestial  patron;  in  the  millions  who,  in  many 
lands  and  in  many  ages,  have  sought,  with  no  barren 
desire,  to  mold  their  characters  into  her  image;  in 
those  holy  maidens  who  for  the  love  of  Mary  have 
separated  themselves  from  the  glories  and  pleasures 
of  the  world,  to  seek  in  fastings  and  vigils  and 
humble  charity  to  render  themselves  worthy  of  her 
benediction;    in    the    new    sense    of    honor,    in    the 

[69] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

chivalrous  respect,  in  the  softening  of  manners,  in 
the  refinement  of  tastes  .  .  .  and  in  many  other 
ways,  we  detect  its  influence:  all  that  was  best  in 
Europe  clustered  around  it,  and  it  is  the  origin  of 
many  of  the  purest  elements  of  our  civilization." 

Ireland  has  always  clung  to  Mary,  and  she  in 
return  has  ever  guarded  Ireland,  giving  her  a 
courageous  strength  of  faith  almost  without  par- 
allel. Religion  colors  every  moment  and  every  act 
of  the  lives  of  her  people,  and  the  spiritual  vacuity 
of  mind  of  the  skeptic  is  beyond  their  comprehension. 
Looking  on  the  world  with  eyes  of  faith,  they  see 
God  in  all  His  creatures.  Nature's  beauties  for 
them  are  stepping  stones  to  God:  every  tree  a  living 
monument  to  Him;  every  flower  a  tongue  singing 
the  Creator's  praises. 

Such  a  faith  is  unshaken  by  earthly  vicissitudes. 
Peace  or  war,  calm  or  storm,  in  the  midst  of  trials 
and  tortures,  in  the  face  of  awful  death,  the  hand 
of  God  is  always  visible  to  them.  See  that  poor 
girl,  whom  the  priest  found  just  at  the  point  of 
death  from  famine  and  fever.  All  her  people  were 
dead,  and  she,  deserted  by  all,  too  weak  to  move, 
lay  motionless  on  the  floor  of  a  cabin,  dying.  The 
priest,  moving  through  a  land  of  death,  found  her 
lying  just  inside  the  open  door.  The  poor  creature, 
a  skeleton,  lit  by  two  blazing  eyes,  was  patiently 
waiting  for  death.  Snow  had  fallen  during  the 
night,  and  the  wind  had  blown  it  in  upon  the  floor, 
where  it  lay,  its  whiteness  matched  by  that  of  the 

[70] 


MONTH  OF  MARY 

forehead  of  the  poor  girl,  against  which  it  had 
drifted.  The  priest,  moved  to  tears,  fell  on  his 
knees  beside  her,  to  prepare  her  for  her  journey 
Home.  Her  white  lips  moved,  and  as  he  bent  to 
catch  her  feeble  whisper,  he  heard  these  words, 
coming  from  a  heart  filled  with  triumphant  faith: 

"  Isn't  God  good,  father?  I  was  lyin'  here  with 
nobody  to  look  after  me  but  Him  and  His  Blessed 
Mother.  I  was  burnin'  with  the  fever  and  thirsty, 
and  no  one  to  give  me  a  drink,  and  He  sent  the  cool 
snow  and  it  came  in  to  my  face  and  I  drank  it. 
Isn't  He  good?" 

In  such  a  glorious  soul,  faith  melts  into  vision, 
and  the  Irish  keep  his  vision  clear  by  daily  and  hourly 
prayer. 

"  We're  travellin'  the  long  straight  road,  with 
God  at  the  end  of  it,  and  sure  we  must  remember 
Him."  And  they  travel  that  road  with  the  rosary 
of  Mary  in  their  hands. 

An  Irish  rosary!  How  Irish  fingers  cling  to  it 
and  Irish  lips  caress  it!  A  magic  circlet,  Mary's 
girdle,  they  have  always  held  it  firmly,  and  she  has 
always  watched  them. 

As  Mary,  the  "  Mother  of  the  Golden  Heights," 
stands,  Rosary-girdled,  over  Ireland,  out  of  the  fog 
and  gloom  of  poverty,  out  of  the  blackness  of  pesti- 
lence and  famine,  out  of  the  red  flame  of  war,  out  of 
the  chill  desolation  of  prison  cell,  Irish  hands  stretch 
eagerly  upwards  to  her.  Hands  of  childhood,  hands 
of  age,  hands  worn  with  sickness,  hands  weak  with 
torture,   hands   hardened  with   toil,    hands   twisted 

[71] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

with  pain,  hands  of  saint  and  hands  of  sinner  —  all 
hands  of  beauty,  quivering  with  love,  reach  upward 
from  the  shadows  and  turmoil  of  earth,  and  clasp 
her  girdle.  At  its  touch,  resignation  and  consola- 
tion flow  down  upon  the  anguished  soul,  hope  swells 
again  in  the  broken  heart,  and  shame  and  misery 
and  despair  are  banished,  for  clasping  that  girdle 
means  clasping  the  "  Ladder  of  Heaven." 

The  rosary  has  always  been  the  anchor  of  the 
Irish.  Clinging  to  this  girdle  of  Mary,  and  calling 
to  her  as  Gabriel  called,  by  its  beads  they  read  the 
book  of  the  life  of  her  Son.  As  a  musician  takes 
a  simple  air  and  enriches  it  with  embellishments, 
clothing  it  with  chords  upon  chords,  evoking  mag- 
nificent harmonies,  now  swelling  with  thunderous 
volume,  now  dying  to  the  softest  whisper,  seemingly 
ever  changing,  yet  ever  keeping  the  simple  air  run- 
ning like  a  golden  thread  through  all,  so  Mary's  sup- 
pliant clings  to  her  girdle,  and,  using  the  simple 
theme  of  the  "  Hail  Mary,"  looks  back  with  her 
upon  the  past.  Guided  by  Mary,  she  sees  before 
her  the  face  of  One  whom  she  loves  dearer  than  life 

—  the  face  of  Mary's  Son.  At  the  touch  of  the 
beads  she  sees  that  face  smiling  in  all  the  grace  and 
innocence  of  childhood,  and  its  eyes  look  lovingly 
into  her  own;  now  it  is  the  mystic  face  of  the 
Teacher;  again,  the  agonized  face  of  the  Crucified 

—  and,  one  last  glimpse,  the  glorified  face  of  her 
God.  In  childlike  faith,  she  kneels  and  watches, 
held  fast  by  Mary's  maternal  hand.  Can  earth 
show  a  more  beautiful  picture,  or  an  ideal  as  high? 

[72] 


MONTH  OF  MARY 

Ireland  in  May  is  a  vast  cathedral  filled  with  joy- 
ous worshipers  of  God:  a  land  glowing  in  the  radi- 
ance of  the  light  that  comes  from  Him  who  is  the 
Light  of  the  World,  for  Ireland's  heart  is  a  living 
chalice  wherein  rests  the  Savior  of  the  world,  the 
Son  of  Mary. 


[73] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CORPUS    CHRISTI    IN    IRELAND 

IT  has  ever  been  the  custom  in  Ireland  to  observe 
*  with  special  devotion  all  the  festivals  of  the 
Church.  Heedless  of  the  criticism  of  a  world  that 
looks  over  her  borders  and  smiles  tolerantly  at  her 
acts,  she  has  ever  persisted  in  thus  obeying  the  man- 
dates of  her  Church,  and  in  honoring  her  God  with 
whole-hearted  devotion.  As  a  result,  a  growth  of 
most  beautiful  customs  has  gathered  round  each 
feast  day,  giving  it,  so  to  speak,  its  individuality. 

The  intensity  of  the  faith  shown  at  these  mani- 
festations of  love  is  striking.  Some  years  ago  I  had 
the  privilege  of  taking  part  in  a  procession  on  the 
feast  of  Corpus  Christi  in  a  country  town  in  Ireland. 
The  town  stands,  surrounded  bv  trees,  in  the  heart 
of  the  central  plateau  of  Ireland,  and  near  it  three 
provinces  meet.  Over  it  tower  the  blue  Slieve 
Bloom  Mountains,  from  whose  hollows  a  little  river 
comes  rushing,  and  after  encircling  the  town,  goes 
hurrying  off  to  join  the  southward-moving  Shannon. 
A  thousand  years  ago,  a  monastery  was  built 
where  the  town  now  stands.  It  was  filled  with 
learned,  ardent  worshipers  —  Catholic  monks  who 
sanctified  the  country-side  by  work  and  prayer  and 
Mass.     To-day     nothing     remains     of     that     once 

[74] 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  IN  IRELAND 

splendid  pile  but  a  mound  of  broken  stones,  eloquent 
yet  of  the  undying  faith  that  shaped  them  —  faith 
that  still  lives  and  speaks;  for  this  people  have 
built  another  home  for  God  by  the  side  of  these 
stones,  and  the  boom  of  the  great  bell  in  its  tower 
to-day  goes  ringing  across  the  plain  and  against  the 
mountain  slopes,  telling  of  the  same  Mass,  the  same 
Church,  the  same  priesthood,  the  same  Faith,  as  did 
the  monastery  bell  in  the  long-dead  ages. 

Our  road  to  the  town  lay  across  a  stretch  of  soft 
brown  bogland,  on  the  farther  side  of  which  was  a 
low  swelling  of  rich  pastureland.  Over  this  the 
road  went  winding  for  several  miles,  flanked  by 
thick  hedges  of  dark-green  hawthorn.  The  scent  of 
their  May  blossom  still  hung  upon  the  air,  a  fragrant 
memory,  recalling  the  vanished  beauty  of  the  white 
wave  that  in  May  breaks  upon  the  green  bosom  of 
Ireland. 

Up  hill  and  down  dale  we  went,  and  one  soon  saw 
that  on  that  day  the  town  in  question  was  the  center 
of  the  whole  country-side.  Every  mile  of  the  road 
was  crowded  with  people.  From  a  dozen  miles 
round  they  were  pouring  into  it.  Every  vehicle  and 
every  beast  of  burden  had  been  requisitioned,  from 
slow-moving  Neddy,  the  patient  one,  to  the  fast- 
moving  trotting  horse. 

I  had  promised  to  show  a  Saxon  guest  an  example 
of  what  Irish  faith  means,  and  he,  expectant,  sat 
with  me  as  we  bowled  merrily  along  a  road  crowded 
with  pilgrims. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  we  passed  conveyance  after 

[75] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

conveyance,  each  filled  with  a  merry,  joking  crowd, 
"  the  only  thing  that  I  know  that  would  bring  us 
out  in  such  numbers  is  a  race  meeting  or  a  bank 
holiday.      This   is  certainly  astonishing  to  me!" 

'  Wait  until  you  arrive  at  the  town,"  I  told  him, 
"  and  you  will  be  more  than  astonished,  for  every 
road  leading  thither  is  as  crowded  as  this  one." 

And  so  the  event  proved.  An  involuntary  ex- 
clamation of  admiration  burst  from  him  as,  at  a  turn 
of  the  road,  we  saw  the  little  town  below  us. 

To  a  lover  of  nature,  it  was  a  glorious  view  that 
stretched  before  us.  The  road  fell  from  our  feet 
to  the  plain  below,  went  running  over  a  hump- 
backed bridge  that  spanned  a  river,  and  was  hidden 
from  sight  by  the  clustering  brown-thatched  cot- 
tages that  marked  where  the  town  began.  Flanked 
by  their  white  walls,  it  ran  curving  into  the  town, 
reappeared  on  the  farther  side,  and  then  went  climb- 
ing—  a  white  ribbon  against  the  green  —  to  the 
foothills  of  the  Slieve  Bloom  Mountains  that 
towered  to  the  skvline. 

But  it  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  natural  setting 
of  the  picture  that  drew  the  exclamation  of  wonder 
from  my  friend.  That  was  caused  by  the  sight  of 
the  lavish  decoration  of  the  town.  From  the  ruins 
of  the  old  monastery  on  the  right,  across  to  the  little 
cottages  that  we  had  already  noticed  standing  by 
the  roadway  on  the  left  of  the  town,  all  was  one 
mass  of  color.  From  the  dark  trees  on  the  river 
edge  came  the  gleam  of  many-colored  arches. 
Flags    floated    from    buildings    and    other    arches 

[76] 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  IN  IRELAND 

spanned  the  streets.  Walls  and  windows  were  dec- 
orated with  statues,  pictures,  and  blazing  candles. 
The  streets  were  thronged  with  expectant  thousands. 
The  inscriptions  upon  the  arches  showed  the  nature 
of  their  expectancy.  Across  the  entrance  to  the 
main  street  was  one  bearing  the  words,  "  Venite, 
exultemus  Domine."  Lower  down  we  passed  un- 
der one  that  flung  across  the  street,  in  salutation  to 
Him  who  was  soon  to  pass  beneath  it,  the  words 
u  Benedictus  qui  venit  in  nomine  Domini." 

"  Can  they  understand  the  meaning  of  the  words 
on  the  arches?  "  asked  my  Saxon,  as  we  passed  down 
the  street. 

"  Do  you  see  that  old  lady  over  there?"  I  an- 
swered, "  with  the  shawl,  mantilla-like  on  her  head, 
and  the  rosary  beads  in  her  hands?  " 

I  pointed  out  a  stalwart  dame  who  was  telling  her 
beads,  looking  with  rapt  devotion  at  a  huge  banner 
of  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "  if  you  want  an  answer  to  your 
question,  an  answer  that  will  be  direct,  prompt,  and 
decisive,  go  over  and  ask  her  if  she  understands; 
but  I  warn  you  that  you  had  better  make  sure  that 
your  life-insurance  policy  is  in  order,  for  she  will 
deem  your  question  an  insult  to  her  love  of  her  God, 
and  she  will  fill  in  some  of  the  blank  spaces  that 
evidently  have  been  left  in  your  education." 

He  decided  to  wait  for  a  time  before  inquiring, 
and  the  events  of  the  day  soon  rendered  inquiry 
superfluous. 

We  made  our  way  to  the  church,  which  was  to  be 

[77] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

the  starting-point  of  the  procession  of  the  Blessed 
Sacrament. 

Our  Lord  was  taken  by  loving  hands  from  His 
throne  on  the  altar.  Placed  in  the  golden  mon- 
strance, He  was  carried  to  the  door  of  the  church, 
and  at  the  sight  of  Him,  looking  out  over  the  multi- 
tude, His  people  dropped  in  adoration  on  their  knees 
before  Him,  pouring  out  their  love  in  fervent  aspira- 
tions. 

Carried  by  His  priests,  clad  in  the  sacred  vest- 
ments, He  set  out  on  His  triumphal  march  through 
His  loyal  subjects.  All  were  there.  Before  Him, 
scattering  flower  petals,  ran  His  little  children;  be- 
hind, with  their  blue  dresses  and  white  veils,  emblems 
of  their  consecration  to  their  Mother  and  His 
Mother,  "  the  darling  Virgin,'1  came  the  members 
of  the  sodality  of  the  Children  of  Mary.  Behind 
these  marched  the  various  sodalities  of  the  town, 
every  man  and  woman  of  them  proud  of  the  honor 
that  was  theirs  that  day. 

But,  splendid  as  was  the  procession,  there  was  a 
feature  of  the  celebration  that  was  more  striking 
than  anything  else,  and  that  was  the  adorning  of  the 
houses  in  honor  of  Him  who  came  and  passed 
through  their  midst.  It  was  not  a  case  of  the  dec- 
oration of  a  house  here  and  there,  but  of  every  house 
in  every  street.  One  stands  out  clearly  in  my  mem- 
ory. It  was  a  little  thatched  cottage,  with  two  tiny 
windows,  and  in  the  center  a  door. 

In  the  doorway  stood  a  little  altar  to  Our  Lady. 
There  in  the  center,  thrown  into  striking  relief  bv 

[78] 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  IN  IRELAND 

a  background  of  dark-green  leaves  and  ferns, 
gleamed  the  blue  and  white  and  gold  of  a  fine  statue 
of  the  Mother  of  Him  who  was  halting  just  outside 
that  cabin  door,  while  the  swinging  censers  filled 
the  street  with  the  aromatic  fragrance  of  the  burn- 
ing incense. 

Bright  as  gleamed  the  gold  on  the  statue,  it  was 
not  brighter  than  the  gold  that  gleamed  in  the 
hearts  of  the  old  couple  who  knelt  on  the  cobble- 
stones, just  outside  the  door  of  their  cabin.  Ob- 
livious of  all  else,  they  bowed  in  adoration  to  the 
King  of  kings,  who  stood  before  them.  The  old 
wife  was  beside  herself  with  emotion.  At  one  mo- 
ment, striking  her  breast,  she  would  bow  until  her 
forehead  almost  touched  the  stones  of  the  street, 
and  the  next  would  raise  herself,  with  outflung  arms 
and  eyes  that  saw  naught  in  that  street  but  Him  of 
the  monstrance,  as  she  cried  aloud  to  Him  in  burn- 
ing accents  of  love.  Tears  were  streaming  from 
her  eyes,  but  they  were  tears  of  joy,  for  God's  grace 
was  making  music  in  her  heart. 

For  that  holy  soul  there  was  no  need  to  have 
lived  in  the  days  of  the  Apostles,  and  have  heard  the 
call:  "  Jesus  of  Nazareth  is  passing;  "  no  need  to 
have  lived  in  Judea  and  marked  the  rush  of  those 
who  wished  to  see  the  Word  made  flesh  as  He 
moved  through  the  Holy  Land.  No  need  for  her 
to  ask,  as  did  the  blind  man  seated  by  the  Jericho 
road:  "Who  is  it?"  and  to  be  told  "Jesus  of 
Nazareth  is  passing  by."  No  need  for  her  to  be 
brought  before  Him  and  to  beg  for  sight  through 

[79] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

the  touch  of  His  holy  hands.  She  knows,  without 
asking,  that  He  is  passing,  for  her  soul  was  touched 
at  its  creation  by  those  holy  hands,  and  has  never 
been  separated  from  Him  since.  No;  Jesus  of 
Nazareth  was  passing  by  that  day  in  holy  Ireland, 
and  she  saw  Him  as  vividly  and  loved  Him  as  in- 
tensely as  ever  Galilean  did. 

I  stole  a  glance  at  my  Saxon  friend  as  we  were 
passing  that  cabin  door,  and  the  rhapsodies  of  love 
from  the  kneeling  woman  filled  the  street.  He  is 
not  prone  to  outward  manifestation  of  emotion,  but 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  God  before  him,  and, 
openly  and  unashamed,  he  was  weeping. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  like  it,"  he  said  to  me 
afterwards.  "Faith!  It's  not  faith,  but  actual 
vision  that  God  has  blessed  these  people  with." 

On  through  the  streets  God  went  in  triumphal 
procession,  amid  the  loud  acclaim  of  His  loving  and 
loved  ones.  In  every  window  blazed  the  candles 
lighted  in  His  honor,  in  every  door  stood  the  little 
altars  with  picture  or  statue.  St.  Joseph  had  his 
place,  and  the  Sacred  Heart  and  St.  Brigid,  and 
of  course,  St.  Patrick  of  the  flowing  beard  and  the 
miter  and  the  crozier  and  the  wriggling  snake. 

We  come  to  a  white  altar.  Flowers  are  white, 
decorations  are  white,  tabernacle  is  white.  Here 
Our  Lord  rests  for  a  moment,  and  listens  to  the 
thunder  of  the  hymn  that  breaks  from  the  lips  of  the 
kneeling  thousands,  and  goes  booming  out  across 
the  silence  of  the  mountain  valleys.  Farther  on  we 
muse  and  enthrone  Him  on  an  altar  that  glows  red 

[so] 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  IN  IRELAND 

against  the  dark  woods  —  red,  that  color  so  befitting 
a  land  of  His  martyrs. 

And  so  they  accompany  Him  around  the  town, 
begging  His  blessing  for  each  and  all.  Over  the 
bridge  they  go  with  Him,  back  to  where  the  spire 
of  His  home  towers  above  the  houses  that  to-day 
cluster  beneath  its  shadows,  as  of  old  they  clustered 
below  the  spire  of  the  Cistercian  abbey,  of  which 
nothing  now  remains  but  the  foundation. 

Enthroned  once  again  within  His  house,  God 
looks  down  the  crowded  aisles  and  hears  the  loud- 
sounding  praises  that  go  up  from  the  kneeling  multi- 
tude, only  a  small  part  of  which  can  find  place  in 
that  large  church.  Suddenly  the  benediction  bell 
rings,  and  perfect  stillness  falls  upon  the  crowd. 
Held  on  high  by  His  priest,  God  gives  His  blessing 
to  His  children.  The  organ  thunders  forth,  the 
people  exultingly  chant  "  Adoremus  in  aeternum 
sanctissimum  sacramentum,"  "  Let  us  adore  forever 
and  forever."  x^ye;  "  forever  and  forever."  May 
such  be  the  destiny  of  Ireland. 

If  the  Heart  of  Our  Lord  thrilled  at  the  sound 
of  the  hosannas  that  greeted  Him  as  He  walked  in 
Judea  —  hosannas  uttered  by  those  who,  when 
danger  and  contumely  were  His,  stood  by  in  silence 
and  let  Him  climb  Calvary  alone  —  how  His  Sacred 
Heart  must  have  rejoiced  at  the  outburst  of  tested 
love  that  greeted  Him  in  that  Irish  town!  Love 
for  Him  fire-tried  as  gold  in  the  furnace,  and  love 
purified  and  strengthened  by  the  trial. 

My  Saxon  friend  sat  silent  as  at  the  end  of  the 
[81] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

day  we  drove  through  crowds  of  light-hearted  folk 
who  were  making  their  way  homeward.  Judging 
from  the  snatches  of  conversation  that  fell  upon  our 
ears  as  we  sped  by,  the  one  theme  on  every  tongue 
was  the  great  procession. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
as  he  looked  towards  two  groups  that  had  just  joined 
before  us,  on  a  hill  that  we  were  slowly  climbing. 
The  first  group  consisted  of  half  a  dozen  motherly- 
looking  old  souls  wrapped  in  what  seemed  an  infinity 
of  garments,  that  suited  them  admirably,  despite 
their  voluminousness,  and  whose  white-frilled  caps 
reminded  one  of  their  sister  Celts  of  Catholic 
Brittany.  The  steady  sedateness  and  deliberateness 
of  their  steps  enabled  the  lighter-stepping  members 
of  the  second  group  to  overtake  them.  This  latter 
group  was  made  up  of  a  father,  mother,  and  four 
children.  The  youngest,  a  child  of  about  six  years 
of  age,  was  clad  in  white,  and  carried  a  small  basket 
in  her  hands. 

It  was  their  word  of  greeting  that  aroused  my 
Saxon  from  his  deep  meditation. 

"  Well,  Moira,  girleen,"  said  Matron  Number 
One  to  the  little  basket-bearer,  as  they  met,  "  'tis 
you  that's  the  lucky  one,  scatterin'  flowers  for  the 
Blessed  Mother  of  God  to  walk  upon!  " 

"  Aye,"  ejaculated  Matron  Number  Two,  in 
semi-soliloquy,  "  if  we  could  only  see  her  the  same 
as  we  saw  her  Son !  " 

"  Wisha,  woman!"  broke  in  Number  One  in 
good-humored  impatience,  "  sure  'tis  hard  to  plaze 

[82] 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  IN  IRELAND 

some  o'  ye.  Didn't  you  see  God  Himself?  And 
don't  you  know  the  Blessed  Mother  was  walking  in 
front  of  Him?  Where  else  'ud  she  be?  An'  yet 
ye're  not  contint!  " 

All  looked  up  as  we  passed  them,  and  in  quick 
response  to  our  greeting  came  a  shower  of  warm- 
hearted blessings,  beginning  with  the  shy  "  God  bless 
you  "  of  the  little  child,  and  ending  in  a  flowing 
stream  of  liquid  Gaelic  from  the  eldest  of  the  ma- 
trons. Her  final  wish  and  blessing  to  us,  "  Ban- 
nachth  De  Lath," — "  May  the  blessing  of  God  go 
with  you," —  came  like  an  organ  tone  through  the 
glorious  harmony,  whose  echoes  sounded  in  our 
hearts  for  manv  a  mile. 

We  left  them  with  God  and  His  angels,  and 
turned  our  faces  to  where  in  the  track  of  the  setting 
sun  our  home  lav  far  out  on  the  plain. 

"  Well,"  musingly  ejaculated  my  Saxon,  "  these 
people  live  in  the  presence  of  God,  certainly.  Did 
you  notice  the  face  of  that  little  girl,  with  its  re- 
markable purity  and  beauty?  She  looked  like  an 
'  escaped  angel  ' !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  and  she  was  in  good  com- 
pany." 

"  There's  no  doubt  of  that,"  he  replied.  "  Faith 
and  prayer  such  as  I  saw  to-day  is  a  revelation  to 
me.  I  understand  now,  better  than  ever  before, 
how  '  perfect  love  casteth  out  fear.'  God  is  truly 
a  Father  —  well-beloved  —  to  these  people,  who 
cling  to  Him  in  warm-hearted  confidence.  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  have  been  privileged  to-day  to  enter 

[83] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

a  corner  of  heaven,  and  have  been  watching  God 
walking  about  among  His  people.     They  are  a  mar- 
velous race  —  God  bless  them!  " 
"Amen,"  said  I. 


[84J 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    NUNS    OF    IRELAND 

THE  saintly  heroism  of  our  nuns  is  one  of  the 
most  touching  proofs  of  the  holiness  of  the 
Church.  In  the  words  of  Aubrey  de  Vere,  an  Irish 
poet  who  deserves  to  be  more  widely  known: 

"  O  Mary,  in  thy  daughters  still 
Thine  image  pure  if  pale  we  find, 
The  crystal  of  the  flawless  will, 
The  soul  irradiating  the  mind." 

Sisters  of  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  these  lowly  hand- 
maidens of  God  and  humanity  walk  the  path  of  per- 
fection in  their  quiet  cloisters,  their  lives  lit  by  the 
soft  glow  of  the  tabernacle  lamp.  Leaving  all  that 
earth  holds  dear,  they  answer  the  call  of  Christ,  and 
begin  lives  that  are  guided  by  the  reins  of  faith  and 
love,  reins  held  fast  in  the  sacred  hands  of  Christ. 
Close  followers  of  Him  who  is  mighty  in  His  meek- 
ness and  powerful  in  His  poverty,  these  daughters 
of  Mary  are  living  examples  of  the  marvelous  power 
of  our  Catholic  faith. 

No  thought  of  self  enters  the  hearts  of  these 
priceless  laborers  for  God  and  man.  They  devote 
themselves  to  the  service  of  humanity  suffering  and 
sorrowful  and  poor,  and  with  whole-hearted  devo- 

[85] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

tion  and  sacrifice  they  bind  themselves  to  this  service 
without  reservation,  offering  all  their  talents  and 
time. 

Trained  in  the  retirement  of  Nazareth  home, 
molded  after  the  example  of  Mary  the  Mother  of 
God,  they  move  through  their  days  with  their  eyes 
on  earth  and  their  thoughts  in  heaven. 

Taught  in  the  schoorof  sanctity,  they  strive  daily 
so  to  train  as  to  be  worthy  followers  of  Him  who 
insists  that  "  thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thy- 
self." Moved  by  this  command,  these  spouses  of 
Christ  bind  themselves  to  the  service  of  God  and 
man  by  the  golden  cord  of  charity,  that  golden  cord 
of  the  triple  strands  —  poverty,  chastity,  and  obedi- 
ence. 

Their  vow  of  poverty  holds  them  ever  close  to 
the  heart  of  the  poor  and  needy. 

Their  vow  of  chastity  holds  them  ever  close  to 
the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus,  and  to  the  heart  of  their 
Mother,  Mary. 

Their  vow  of  obedience  holds  them  ever  close  to 
Almighty  God. 

In  Ireland,  from  the  days  of  St.  Brigid,  the  Mary 
of  Ireland,  each  generation  has  seen  young  maidens 
in  multitudes  come  from  the  doors  of  Irish  homes, 
as  the  call  of  Christ  sounded  clear  in  their  hearts,  to 
serve  Him  and  live  for  Him  under  the  hallowed  roof 
of  the  convent.  And  the  enrolment  in  God's  serv- 
ice of  this  army  of  valiant  women,  who  with  noble 
action  and  high  ideals  have  helped  to  lift  Ireland  to 
the  stars,  is  but  the  logical  sequence  of  Irish  mothers 

[86] 


THE  NUNS  OF  IRELAND 

and  Irish  homes,  with  their  Catholic  faith  and  Cath- 
olic atmosphere. 

These  saintly  souls  quietly  work  with  deft  fingers 
and  trained  minds,  and  with  hearts  that  are  lamps 
whereby  all  may  read  God's  message  of  love  to  man. 
Love  is  their  talisman!  "Love  one  another;  love 
the  good  God,  and  all  will  go  well  "  were  the  last 
words  of  a  dying  foundress  to  her  spiritual  daugh- 
ters as  she  went  to  meet  Him  who  "  alone  remaineth 
an  invincible  King  for  ever." 

Lives  lived  as  theirs  are  must  influence  all  who 
meet  them.  For  instance,  what  a  wealth  of  prac- 
tical charity  there  is  in  these  few  maxims  of  the  holy 
foundress  of  a  congregation  of  nuns: 

"  Speak  softly;  reverence  age;  take  the  lowest 
place  and  the  worst  of  whatever  is  offered  to  you; 
never  give  an  unasked  opinion;  never  judge  any  one, 
even  in  thought;  never  contradict;  never  give  a 
short  answer;  show  special  attention  to  those  who 
are  not  agreeable  to  you;  practise  little  mortifica- 
tions each  day  at  table." 

Of  one  whose  acts  accord  with  such  maxims  the 
poet  in  truth  may  write : 

"  Her  mind  is  a  river  of  light, 
Her  heart  is  a  well  of  love." 

And  of  course  she  is  always  happy,  as  the  joyous 
laughter  testifies  that  bubbles  over  from  the  beau- 

[87] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

tiful  child-heart  of  the  nun  in  every  convent  recrea- 
tion room  in  the  land.  "  Did  you  think  that  when 
we  put  on  our  habits  we  left  our  hearts  and  our 
smiles  outside?"  said  one  wise  old  foundress  to  an 
inquirer  who  pictured  a  nun's  life  as  somber. 

The  results  of  their  work  prove  the  truth  of  this. 
These  joyous-hearted  women  have  sweetened  and 
made  endurable  by  their  presence  that  former  monu- 
ment of  ineptitude,  the  poorhouse.  The  sound  of 
their  voices  banishes  the  dreary  gloom  of  neglect, 
and  fills  the  heart  of  the  deserted  one  with  fresh 
courage.  Those  cold  halls  take  on  an  aspect  of 
home  as  the  sister  moves  across  them.  At  the  touch 
of  her  hand  the  world-weary  eyes  brighten,  and  they 
gaze  in  gratitude  at  her  who  lives  side  by  side  with 
them,  serving  them  in  divine  charity  until  they  close 
their  tired  eyes  in  death. 

As  teachers,  they  are  models  of  refinement,  gentle- 
ness, holiness,  and  sacrifice.  For  over  a  thousand 
years  nuns  have  been  training  Irish  womanhood,  and 
it  is  no  wonder  that  they  keep  the  hearts  of  the 
women  of  Ireland  filled  with  splendid  ideals.  They 
stand  unrivalled  as  molders  of  the  minds  of  children. 
All  creeds  recognize  this.  A  Protestant  gentleman, 
when  asked  by  the  writer  why  he  sought  to  place 
his  only  daughter  at  a  nuns'  school,  replied:  "  I  am 
an  Englishman  and  the  son  of  a  parson.  I  was  ed- 
ucated at  one  of  the  great  public  schools  of  Eng- 
land. My  wife,  an  American,  was  educated  at  a 
famous  girls'  college  in  America.  There  is  one 
thing  that  both  of  us  are  quite  determined  on,  and 

[88] 


THE  NUNS  OF  IRELAND 

that  is,  that  we  shall  entrust  the  education  of  our 
child  to  no  one  but  a  Catholic  nun." 

When  erring  woman  turns  in  penitence  to  God, 
the  Church  like  a  true  mother  sends  her  to  the  home 
where  these  purest  of  her  daughters  dwell,  knowing 
that  there  she  will  receive  the  welcome  of  a  mother 
and  sister.  For  the  nun  knows  that  every  soul  is 
signed  with  the  seal  of  brotherhood  with  Christ. 

It  is  the  vocation  of  a  nun  to  save  souls,  and  as 
soon  as  her  training  is  ended  she  begins  her  life- 
work.  This  generally  means  humble  self-efface- 
ment and  retirement.  But  at  times  their  work  at- 
tracts notice,  and  the  world  focuses  its  limelight 
upon  them,  and  is  astonished,  as  is  the  way  of  this 
foolish  old  world  of  ours,  at  their  rare  qualities. 
The  flash  of  that  light,  however,  does  not  dazzle  the 
nuns;  they  move  quietly  about  their  work,  mindful 
only  of  the  light  of  the  Master,  and  listening  always 
to  His  voice. 

On  all  the  battle-fronts  they  have  been  working 
in  hospitals,  succoring  the  wounded,  and  comfort- 
ing the  dying.  The  world  rings  with  praises  of 
their  heroism,  and  has  gazed  wonderingly  while 
many  have  been  decorated  for  exceptional  bravery. 

But,  despite  the  astonishment  of  the  world,  this 
is  no  new  thing.  Look  at  that  act  of  a  Tipperary 
nun  in  the  Franco-Prussian  War.  While  tending 
the  wounded,  she  saw  a  large  bomb  fall  where  sev- 
eral were  lying.  She  rushed  across,  placed  the 
smoking  bomb  in  her  apron,  and  carried  it  to  a  safe 
distance.      Then   she   threw   it   from   her,   and   cast 

[89] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

herself  face  down  upon  the  ground.  In  a  few  sec- 
onds the  bomb  burst  with  terrific  force,  but  she 
marvelously  escaped  injury.  The  whole  army  rang 
with  praises  of  her  bravery.  The  Commander-in- 
Chief  ordered  a  parade,  sent  for  the  nun,  and,  after 
warmly  eulogizing  her,  pinned  to  her  black  habit 
the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  She  stood  with 
downcast  eyes  while  the  cheers  of  the  saluting  sol- 
diers filled  the  air.  Then  she  turned  to  the  Gen- 
eral, and  in  all  simplicity  and  humility  asked,  "  Are 
you  done  with  me,  now,  General?  for  I  must  go  to 
nurse  my  poor  wounded  soldiers  who  are  waiting  for 
me."  Always  calm,  with  the  calm  that  comes  from 
the  realized  presence  of  Christ. 

During  the  American  Civil  War,  Irish  nuns  tended 
the  wounded  of  both  armies.  Sister  Anthony,  a 
Limerick  nun,  is  famous  still  as  "  The  Ministering 
Angel  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee."  A  great 
hospital  built  in  her  honor  stands  in  an  American 
city  to-day. 

A  shy  Irish  nun  headed  the  band  of  sisters  who 
nursed  our  soldiers  at  the  Crimea.  They  shrank 
not  from  duty  that  meant  death,  and  many  were 
laid  to  rest  in  white-crossed  graves  on  the  hill-side  of 
Balaclava.  So  nobly  did  all  acquit  themselves,  that 
on  the  return  of  the  troops  to  Southampton  the 
Commanding  Officer  ordered  them  to  march  by  his 
side  at  the  head  of  the  regiments,  and  share  in  the 
welcome  given  by  the  nation. 

But  such  publicity  is  utterly  distasteful  to  them, 
and  they  are  not  happy  until  they  find  themselves 

[90] 


THE  NUNS  OF  IRELAND 

back  in  their  loved  convent  homes,  where  they  can 
labor  unnoticed,  and  spend  themselves  helping  the 
lowly  and  the  weak. 

During  the  great  war  now  happily  over,  the  out- 
side world  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  wonderful 
bravery  of  our  nuns,  and  the  expert  help  given  by 
them  on  the  battlefield,  and  none  dare  now  speak  of 
their  "  wasted  "  lives.  War  has  but  revealed  quali- 
ties that  have  always  existed  in  the  hearts  of  our 
nuns  —  heroic  sacrifice  and  practical  piety.  But 
how  many,  even  among  Catholics,  know  of  their 
splendid  work  through  long  years  of  peace?  For 
example,  take  their  work  in  the  congested  districts  in 
the  West  of  Ireland.  Statesmen  and  RiOyal  Com- 
missions wrestled  unsuccessfully  with  the  problem  of 
relieving  the  acute  distress  there,  and  finally,  in  des- 
pair, said  that  nothing  but  emigration  could  cure 
the  evil.  A  few  black-robed  nuns  glided  in  quietly 
armed  only  with  Catholic  faith.  Prophecies  of  fail- 
ure met  them  on  every  hand.  "  It  is  God's  work, 
and  He  must  help  His  people  "  was  the  only  answer 
of  the  heroic  leader.  God  did  help  the  work:  a 
splendid  woolen  mill  stands  there  now,  giving  work 
to  all.  Close  by  stands  a  cooperative  creamery, 
also  begun  by  the  nuns.  As  a  result,  the  whole 
country-side,  formerly  poor  and  desolate,  now  smiles 
in  plenty. 

That  is  ever  the  spirit  of  the  nun.  All  our  great 
sisterhoods  sprang  from  one  pair  of  hands  and  a 
giant  heart,  that  fearlessly  faced  poverty,  obloquy, 
and  fierce  opposition,  and  conquered  all  difficulties. 

[91] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Youghal  was  languishing  in  poverty.  God's  nuns 
came  in  and  started  a  lace  factory,  that  in  a  short 
time  was  paying  in  wages  £2,000  a  year.  When 
the  factory  was  firmly  established,  they  called  the 
workers  together,  and  gave  them  the  factory,  as  co- 
operative workers. 

They  have  acted  similarly  in  several  towns,  for 
these  daughters  of  Mary  work  not  for  money: 

"  In  Him  unseen,  their  wealth  they  hoard; 
They  sit  in  self-oblivion  sweet, 
The  virgin  spouses  of  their  Lord, 
Beside  the  Virgin  Mother's  feet." 

The  only  thing  on  earth  marked  with  their  name 
in  sign  of  ownership  is  the  plain  wooden  cross  that 
tells  where  they  lie  when  their  work  on  earth  is 
ended.  They  ask  nothing  for  themselves.  The 
first  two  hours  of  each  day  are  spent  in  communion 
with  God  at  meditation  and  Mass,  and  the  rest  of 
their  waking  hours  are  given  to  the  people. 

When  Ireland  with  bleeding  hands  strove  to  bind 
the  gaping  wounds  of  penal  days,  and  while  famine 
and  sickness  held  her  children  fast,  these  heroic 
daughters  of  Ireland  sprang  to  help  their  mother. 
They  succored  the  famished,  nursed  the  sick,  closed 
the  eyes  of  the  dying,  and  buried  the  dead. 

In  sickness  or  in  health,  their  one  thought  is  the 
interests  of  Christ.  To-day  in  Ireland,  in  the  cor- 
ner of  a  bare  little  cell,  there  lies  one  who  after  a  long 
life  spent  in  the  service  of  God  has  been  stricken 
with  an  incurable  disease.     Each  year,  outside  her 

[92] 


THE  NUNS  OF  IRELAND 

little  window,  an  Irish  rose  blooms  and  taps  upon  the 
pane,  moved  by  the  fragrant  summer  breeze  that 
comes  sweeping  lazily  across  orchard  and  meadow. 
But  she  sees  it  not.  Her  eyes  have  been  eaten  away, 
and  she  lies  there,  year  after  year,  totally  blind. 
Her  body  is  a  flame  of  excruciating  pain,  and  she 
can  sleep  but  in  snatches  of  a  few  moments,  and 
marks  each  hour  of  the  day  and  night  as  the  years 
pass  slowly  by.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all,  in  spite  of  the 
corroding  disease,  in  spite  of  the  biting  pain,  in 
spite  of  the  blindness,  her  heart  is  steady  and  full 
of  confidence  in  God.  No  thought  of  murmuring 
against  her  affliction  crosses  her  mind;  not  a  syllable 
of  complaint  passes  her  lips.  She  sees  in  all  the 
hand  of  Christ,  pressing  His  cross  upon  her,  a  cross 
to  be  carried  till  death  gives  victory. 

Such  resignation  is  truly  heroic;  but  this  blind 
Irish  daughter  of  Mary  climbs  to  even  greater 
heights  of  faith  and  sacrifice.  Not  only  does  she 
bear  her  affliction  with  resignation,  but  in  joyful 
charity  she  prizes  it  as  a  means  of  drawing  souls  to 
God.  Through  the  years  she  lies  in  her  silent  cell, 
unceasingly  offering  her  sufferings  to  God  for  forget- 
ful sinners.  Love  triumphs  over  torture.  Night 
and  day  she  pleads  to  God  in  sublime  self-forgetful- 
ness  — "  Let  my  sufferings  save  a  soul  each  second, 
O  my  Jesus,  a  soul  each  second."  Truly  a  model  of 
heroic  resignation  and  faith.  How  fortunate  are 
the  children  of  Ireland  in  being  trained  by  such 
heroic  souls!  They  lift  the  nation  and  hold  it  close 
to  God. 

[93] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

There  is  a  little  convent  on  an  Irish  plain,  far 
from  the  noise  of  towns.  Winding  boreens  go  slip- 
ping by  its  white  walls,  and  lose  themselves  in  a 
maze  of  hedgerows.  A  quiet  canal  comes  curving 
in  between  banks  of  green  to  look  at  it  before  bend- 
ing away  to  join  the  rushing  Shannon.  That  con- 
vent is  a  center  to  which  the  whole  country-side 
turns.  Through  the  generations  its  nuns  have  held 
the  hearts  of  the  people.  As  little  children,  these 
people  came  running  along  those  boreens  to  the 
school  of  the  good  nuns.  School-days  ended,  they 
came  as  children  of  Mary  to  worship  God  in  the 
quiet  convent  chapel.  Later  again,  as  wives  and 
mothers,  they  cluster  round  the  gentle  nuns  for 
guidance  and  consolation. 

Behind  its  high  wall  the  convent  stands,  looking 
down  upon  a  little  garden  of  flowers  that  goes  creep- 
ing into  the  shade  of  a  clump  of  tall  pines.  A  nar- 
row path  slips  between  the  flowers  to  where,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  little  white  crosses  mark  the 
flower-covered  convent  graves.  But  to-day  there  is 
one  spot  where  the  flowers  have  drawn  back,  and  the 
brown  earth  curves  in  sorrow:  it  is  the  grave  of  one 
whose  soul,  after  sixty-three  years  of  loyal  service 
within  the  circle  of  that  convent  wall,  has  soared  to 
heaven.  Her  sisters  carried  the  worn  body  into  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  but  there  was  no  shadow  on 
their  hearts,  for  such  a  death  is  a  triumph. 

Such  souls  and  such  homes  of  God  abound  in 
every  part  of  Ireland,  and  are  one  of  the  chief 
sources  of  her  strength. 

[94] 


THE  NUNS  OF  IRELAND 

But  not  in  Ireland  alone  do  they  labor.  Im- 
pelled by  love,  these  doves  of  the  tabernacle  in 
gentle  flight  have  circled  the  earth  in  eager  search 
for  souls.  True  children  of  St.  Patrick,  they  carry 
the  torch  of  faith  to  every  land,  and  strive  to  light 
the  darkness  of  the  nations.  No  difficulty  daunts 
them.  See  that  band  of  Irish  nuns  dragged  in 
drays  across  the  prairies  for  a  fortnight,  and  from 
the  wilds  of  the  West  writing  back  to  Ireland  — 
"  We  are  quite  happy,  for  we  find  here  Our  Lord  in 
the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and  souls  to  save  for  Him." 
A  temperature  of  fifty  degrees  below  freezing-point 
played  harmlessly  round  the  flame  of  love  that 
burned  in  the  hearts  of  those  heroines. 

Over  the  summits  of  the  Andes,  by  the  side  of 
the  frozen  Yukon,  our  Irish  nuns  have  gone.  Un- 
der the  shadow  of  the  Himalayas,  by  the  sluggish 
rivers  and  canals  of  China,  through  African  forests, 
en  Australian  plains,  by  the  rushing  rivers  of  New 
Zealand,  these  heroines  move  and  work,  like  their 
Master,  "  doing  good."  Brides  of  Christ,  they  are 
strong  with  the  strength  of  Christ,  and  face  horrors 
that  have  daunted  the  hearts  of  brave  men.  Nor 
let  us  forget  that  these  sublime  heights  are  gained 
by  these  heroines,  not  through  lack  of  human  nature, 
but  because  of  their  control  of  human  nature. 

See  the  little  nun  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  be- 
low the  jutting  wharf  of  Molokai.  She  had  bravely 
come  to  spend  her  life  for  the  lepers  and  die  among 
them.  But  when  the  boat  drew  into  the  shadow  of 
the  wharf  and  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  awful  row 

[95] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

of  fetid  humanity  that  peered  down  at  her  —  nose- 
less, lipless,  earless  —  fungus-covered  remnants,  the 
sudden  horror  of  the  sight  was  too  much  for  her 
physically,  and  she  fell  in  a  passion  of  tears  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat.  But  soon  the  paroxysm,  wrung 
from  nature,  passed,  and  with  firm  step  she  mounted 
to  the  wharf  to  the  souls  that  awaited  her,  and  she 
is  bravely  working  there  to-day. 

In  mercy  and  charity  they  have  girdled  the  earth 
with  homes  where  the  outcast  and  poor  and  sick  may 
rest.  To  their  great  hearts  they  gather  the  weak 
ones  of  the  earth.  They  are  mothers  to  the  young, 
daughters  to  the  aged,  sisters  to  the  erring.  Here 
we  find  them  guarding  the  orphan  that  stood  shrink- 
ing in  pitiful  helplessness  at  the  beginning  of  the 
road  of  life;  there  they  smooth  the  pillow  of  the 
aged,  who  at  the  end  of  the  road  await  the  merging 
of  time  into  eternity. 

Ireland  counts  these  her  heroic  daughters  among 
her  greatest  glories.  They  are  welcomed  with  af- 
fectionate reverence  in  every  land.  And  rightly  so, 
for  the  whole  world  is  their  home,  and  all  mankind 
their  brother. 


[96] 


CHAPTER  X 

SOGGARTH    AROON 

'  I  *HE  priesthood  of  the  Catholic  Church,  stand- 
■■■  ing  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  unbroken  ranks, 
from  the  crucified  St.  Peter  on  the  Vatican  Hill  to 
the  prisoner  Pope  of  the  Vatican  to-day,  holds  the 
divine  force  that  vivifies  and  directs  mankind. 

A  fearless  army,  it  goes  striding  in  undying  vital- 
ity across  the  centuries,  carrying  through  every  land 
God's  message  to  man.  It  has  routed  the  forces  of 
paganism  and  barbarism,  rolled  back  the  poison-gas 
of  materialism,  and  sown  the  seeds  of  love  and 
liberty  and  enlightenment. 

He  who  would  write  of  the  doings  of  this  army 
must  needs  write  the  history  of  the  human  race,  for 
the  march  of  that  army  is  the  history  of  mankind, 
history  written  by  the  finger  of  God,  history  that 
makes  simple  all  the  problems  of  creation.  And 
the  writer  must  be  one  with  vision  broad  enough 
to  enable  him  to  measure  the  heights  of  heroism 
attained  by  Catholic  priests,  men  who  sacrifice 
friends,  home,  country,  and  life  itself,  if  need  be,  at 
the  call  of  Christ. 

The  very  nature  of  the  mission  of  the  priest  sup- 
poses a  soul  cast  in  heroic  mold.  His  is  no  light 
call.      It  is  a  soldier  call  that  means  in  tender  years 

[97] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

a  severance  from  the  strong  ties  of  blood.  "  Fol- 
low Me  "  means  the  renunciation  of  much  that  is 
naturally  dear  to  the  human  heart,  and  he  who  re- 
sponds must  be  made  of  fine  metal.  As  he  steps 
into  the  ranks,  the  command  of  the  Leader  sounds 
in  his  ear — "deny  thyself;  take  up  thy  cross." 
Year  after  year  passes  in  the  school  of  self-denial, 
purifying  and  strengthening  the  strong  foundation 
of  natural  force  of  character  that  is  his.  His  call 
is  from  God,  and  he  realizes  this.  His  character, 
strong  enough  primarily  to  resist  the  call  of  the 
world,  has  by  long  and  steady  training  all  its  facul- 
ties and  powers  fully  and  scientifically  developed. 
He  must  first  conquer  himself,  the  most  difficult  of 
all  conquests,  for  "  he  who  conquers  himself  is 
greater  than  he  who  takes  a  city." 

At  the  end  of  his  training  he  is  raised  to  an  office 
that  places  him  between  God  and  man  as  an  alter 
Christus.  The  priest  spends  his  life,  heedless  of 
himself,  in  directing  souls  to  the  waiting  Savior  of 
the  world.  He  is  the  guardian  of  the  life  of  the 
world.  As  the  dispenser  of  the  sacraments,  he  is 
the  center  of  God's  work  on  earth.  By  the  priest 
is  continued  the  distribution  of  the  Bread  of  Life 
that  was  first  placed  on  the  table  of  the  Last  Supper. 
As  one  of  a  regal  priesthood,  he  receives  the  soul  at 
birth,  guards  and  directs  it  through  life,  and  at  death 
sends  it  with  certainty  and  in  safety  its  journey  back 
to  the  Master  who  created  it. 

"  I  have  chosen  you  that  you  may  bear  fruit:  go 
teach  all  nations,"   is  their  divine  commission,   and 

[98] 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

the  history  of  the  universal  Church  shows  how  mag- 
nificently her  priesthood  has  responded.  Caring 
nothing  for  any  notice  or  reward  but  the  "  well 
done  "  of  Christ,  they  have  ever  been  in  the  van  of 
civilization.  On  the  Yukon,  before  the  goldseekers, 
they  labored  for  years  in  icy  Alaska  of  the  awful 
silence;  they  were  the  pioneers  of  Canada  and 
North  America,  the  first  whites  to  venture  among 
the  terrible  Indians;  we  find  them  in  the  pathless 
forests  of  the  Amazon,  and  on  the  rolling  plains  of 
South  America,  carrying  their  lives  in  their  hands. 
Centuries  before  our  modern  explorers  they  pene- 
trated the  fastnesses  of  Africa.  They  crossed  Asia 
from  Syria  to  China,  on  to  Japan,  and  down  the 
Pacific  islands. 

In  the  past,  the  priest  has  done  his  work  unheeded 
by  men;  but  to-day  the  red  scourge  of  war,  dis- 
sipating the  darkness  of  materialism,  has  forced  a 
careless  world  to  acknowledge  the  grandeur  of  his 
ideals  and  his  unique  self-sacrifice.  In  times  of 
great  crisis,  the  innate  nobility  of  the  human  heart 
shines  out,  conventions  and  prejudices  shrivel  and 
die,  and  man  takes  his  stand  firmly  and  unhesitat- 
ingly upon  the  rock  of  truth  and  honor.  In  such 
times,  truth  stands  in  the  naked  light  of  life,  clear 
for  all  to  see,  and  there  is  no  place  for  those  whose 
gospel,  however  disguised,  means  that  the  highest 
ideal  of  man  cannot  lift  him  above  the  mud. 

To-day  religion  has  come  into  its  own  again. 
No  longer  sneered  at,  it  is  recognized  as  the  founda- 
tion of  the  highest  form  of  bravery,  enabling  men  to 

[99] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

attain  sublime  heights  of  selfless  heroism.  On  every 
side  men  have  turned  in  reverence  to  God.  All 
Christians  have  bowed  before  their  Leader  and 
King,  Christ  Jesus.  Man,  when  he  looks  eye  to 
eye  with  death,  stands  free  from  folly,  and  turns 
instinctively  to  his  Creator  with  a  heartfelt  cry  for 
aid.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  children  of  holy 
mother  Church,  the  guardian  of  the  whole  truth 
of  God  and  the  dispenser  of  His  miraculous  sacra- 
mental gifts  to  mankind. 

Thus  it  is  that  to-day  the  world,  rapt  in  admira- 
tion, recognizes  the  heroism  of  Christ's  cross-bearer 
—  the  Catholic  priest.  To  realize  the  truth  of  this, 
look  for  a  moment  at  our  great  ally,  France. 

The  first  breath  of  war  scattered  the  deadly  fumes 
of  materialism,  with  which  foolish  men,  forgetting 
that  they  are  but  clay  vivified  by  the  breath  of  God, 
were  striving  to  enshroud  her.  Stirred  to  the 
depths,  she  has  risen  in  splendid  greatness,  upheld 
by  her  Catholic  traditions.  Her  priests  are  the  men 
who,  by  their  unrecognized  valor,  have  in  spite  of 
banishment  and  imprisonment,  of  punishment  and 
poverty,  held  aloft  the  flag  of  Christ  in  France  in 
the  past.  To-day,  thanks  to  their  teaching,  France 
in  her  trouble  is  turning  as  a  nation  whole-heartedly 
to  God  and  His  Church.  This  is  the  secret  of  the 
strength  of  France.  Even  those  alien  to  us  in  faith 
are  now  acknowledging  this,  as  may  be  seen  by  these 
words  from  the  pen  of  a  French  Protestant: 

"  The   psychological   historian   who   shall  under- 
[ioo] 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

take  the  task  of  analyzing  the  deep  causes  of  the 
unexpected  strength  of  the  resistance  offered  by 
France  to  the  invader  of  19 14  will  find  himself  com- 
pelled to  note,  amongst  other  new  factors  of  the 
first  importance,  a  strong  revival  of  religious  feeling. 
And  one  of  the  elements  of  this  reawakening  is  the 
presence  in  such  large  numbers,  and  the  example  so 
often  heroic,  of  the  priests  with  the  colors.  And 
this  is  without  reckoning  the  deaths  of  priests  as 
priests,  shot  in  the  fulfillment  of  their  sacred  duties, 
and  falling  as  martyrs  in  their  blood-stained  cas- 
socks." 

We  Catholics  require  no  "  psychological  his- 
torian "  to  find  for  us  the  cause  of  the  strength  of 
those  lion-hearted  soldiers  and  priests,  our  brothers 
and  fathers  in  Christ.  We  know  that  it  is  because 
they  possess  the  perfection  of  manhood  promised  by 
Christ  to  all  who  believe  in  Him  and  obey  Him. 

Again,  the  whole  world  still  rings  with  the 
praises  of  that  great  priest,  Cardinal  Mercier,  who 
in  ardent  patriotism  and  fervent  piety  stands  by 
gallant  King  Albert  and  leads  Belgium.  How  our 
hearts  thrill  as  we  look  upon  this  splendid  figure, 
towering,  a  veritable  Colossus,  above  stricken  Bel- 
gium, and  rousing  the  world  by  his  words  of  fire! 
Oh,  the  strength  of  the  faith  that  makes  utterance 
such  as  his  possible  !  While  his  country  still  quivered 
beneath  a  hell-burst,  a  wilderness  of  smoking  roof- 
trees,  of  hearths  ensanguined  by  the  blood  of  her 
murdered  children,  with  the  roar  of  battle  in  his 

[101] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

ears,  he  stood,  calm  and  confident,  and  looked  for 
redress  to  Jesus  and  Mary. 

Truly,  there  is  no  armor  like  the  armor  of  a  good 
conscience;  no  vision  like  the  vision  that  sees  clear 
through  the  blinding  mists  of  earth  to  the  welcoming 
hand  of  Christ.  The  priest  possesses  both  these, 
and  they  enable  him  to  weigh  existing  evils  in  the 
balance  of  eternity.  The  priests  in  the  trenches 
did  only  what  their  brothers  have  been  doing 
through  the  centuries,  and  showed  that  like  them 
they  are  possessed  of  a  valor  and  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose that  not  even  death  itself  could  daunt.  Their 
only  thought  was  for  souls.  Their  orders  from  their 
Commander-in-Chief  were  "  teach  all  nations,"  and 
wherever  men  needed  them,  there  they  were  to  be 
found.  They  have  always  been  animated  by  this 
spirit  of  sacrifice.  Whether  in  the  quiet  of  the  semi- 
nary and  the  sacristy,  or  the  riot  and  ruin  of  the  bat- 
tlefield, matters  not, —  heroes  all,  they  press  on,  fol- 
lowing the  beckoning  hand  of  Christ.  Such  heroes 
are  to  be  found  in  every  nation  and  in  every  genera- 
tion, towering  high  above  all  other  men,  lifting  souls 
to  God,  and  gaining  the  undying  love  of  all  who  know 
them.  Persecution  has  but  multiplied  them,  and 
death  increased  their  strength,  adding  their  names 
to  the  unending  line  of  martyrs  and  confessors  that 
is  the  glory  of  our  Church. 

Of  no  country  is  this  more  true  than  of  Ireland; 
for  while  in  other  lands  the  torch  of  persecution 
burned  fitfully,  with  her  it  burned  in  steady  blaze 
through   long   centuries.     Yet,   with   a    fervor   and 

[102] 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

bravery  almost  unrivalled,  Ireland  remained  faithful 
to  God  and  His  priest;  and  out  of  awful  suffering 
endured  together,  the  priest  has  a  place  in  the  heart 
of  Ireland  that  is  unique  upon  earth. 

Ireland  is  securely  anchored  to  the  Sacred  Heart 
of  Jesus  and  to  Mary,  and  he  to  whom  after  God  she 
is  indebted  for  this  is  the  foremost  of  her  heroes, 
he  whom  in  loving  reverence  her  children  have 
named  "  Soggarth  Aroon. " 

Soggarth!  name  of  reverence,  recognizing  and  re- 
alizing fully  the  majesty  of  the  divine  power  that  he 
holds. 

Aroon !  name  of  love,  telling  of  the  outpouring  of 
an  affection  without  equal  on  earth. 

Soggarth  Aroon!  He  has  ever  been  the  faithful 
guardian  of  the  people,  the  good  shepherd  cease- 
lessly watching  in  selfless  devotion  over  the  flock. 

When  Ireland  had  to  choose  between  the  torture 
and  death  of  Calvary  and  the  soft  ease  of  earth,  led 
by  her  priest  sons  she  fearlessly  set  her  feet  upon  the 
Way  of  the  Cross.  As  we  have  seen  when  we 
looked  at  her  martyrdom,  her  Soggarth  was  classed 
with  the  wolf,  and  legally  could  be  killed  at  sight. 
"  No  priest  to  be  left  in  Ireland  "  was  the  order. 
The  high  sea-cliff  saw  them  bound  back  to  back,  and 
pushed  to  death  on  the  black  rocks  below;  trapped 
in  the  Mass  cave,  they  died  in  a  reek  of  smoke;  sold 
to  the  slave  trader  and  transported,  they  worked 
till  death  under  the  lash  of  their  owner;  from  end 
to  end  of  the  land  their  bodies  swung  in  the  shadow 
of  the  "  priest's  tree."      Every  gallows  in  the  coun- 

[103] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

try  shook  as  priest  after  priest  climbed  the  ladders 
at  the  bidding  of  their  would-be  exterminators.  But 
transportation,  prison,  torture,  death  —  all  were  of 
no  avail.  It  was  death  for  a  priest  to  be  found  in 
Ireland,  and  death  for  a  father  to  send  his  son  out 
of  Ireland  to  be  trained  as  a  priest.  Yet,  no  sooner 
did  one  fall  than  another  sprang  to  take  his  place. 
For  in  an  unending  stream  boys  from  Irish  homes 
stole  to  the  Continent,  and,  with  hearts  aflame  with 
love,  followed  an  ideal  that  touches  the  highest  point 
of  heroism  that  man  may  reach  —  close  imitation 
of  the  Hero  of  heroes  —  our  Savior  Jesus  Christ. 
Scarce  was  the  oil  of  anointing  dry  upon  their  hands 
than  they  hurried  back  to  their  stricken  brethren, 
ready —  aye,  willing  —  to  die  for  God  and  Ireland. 
Every  glen  and  hill  has  its  priest's  cave,  and  too 
often,  alas!  its  priest's  tree,  speaking  eloquently  of 
the  long  line  of  heroes  who  guarded  Ireland's  soul. 

They  lit  the  lamp  of  faith  and  kept  it  burning, 
and  no  matter  what  clouds  rolled  between  Ireland 
and  the  sun  of  justice  and  mercy,  the  light  of  faith 
ever  shone  through  the  darkness  and  the  nation 
stood  steady  against  all  assaults. 

Though  the  Finn-foya,  the  sweet-toned  Mass  bell, 
lay  silent  and  broken,  the  voice  of  the  Soggarth  rang 
like  a  clarion  across  the  desolate  land,  and  filled 
Irish  hearts  with  faith  and  courage  that  rose  trium- 
phant over  torture,  starvation,  and  death.  In  a 
thousand  disguises,  he  faced  death  daily  as  he  suc- 
cored his  helpless  flock.  To  harbor  him  was  death; 
but  the  cabin  of  the  poorest  was  ever  a  sanctuary  for 

[104] 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

him  and  Christ  whom  he  carried,  a  sanctuary  that 
neither  menaces  nor  gold  could  violate. 

They  had  no  bread  and  were  starving.  He  fed 
them  with  Living  Bread  from  heaven. 

They  were  friendless  and  outcast.  He  gave  them 
home  and  Christ. 

Shelterless  in  the  rain  and  the  storm  they  lay 
dying.  He  enwrapt  them  in  his  mighty  love  and 
comforted  them. 

Through  the  smoke  of  the  burnings,  past  the 
hungry  gallows,  under  the  cloud  of  the  pestilence, 
braving  death  at  every  move,  the  Soggarth  crept  to 
them. 

"  Ah !  thank  God,  Soggarth,  you  have  come," 
feebly  whispered  the  piteously  tremulous  lips,  with 
a  sigh  of  content,  and  at  his  coming  death  lost  its 
terror;  the  trembling  soul,  steadied,  leaped  with 
confidence  to  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Christ,  sure  of  a 
welcome.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  great  mists 
of  death  were  banished  and  changed  into  the  golden 
glory  of  the  home-coming.  As  the  outcast  looked 
again  upon  his  loved  form,  agony  left  the  dying  eyes, 
and  they  were  filled  with  the  radiance  of  victory. 

Weak  hands  were  lifted  for  the  holy  anointing. 
The  almost  pulseless  heart  beat  strong  with  love  as 
in  Viaticum  the  King  of  Love  stole  into  it  and 
rested.  The  Soggarth  crept  on  to  succor  other  suf- 
ferers, but  Christ  remained.  What  cared  the  soul 
then  for  biting  wind  that  drove  the  chilling  snow 
upon  the  wasted,  dying  body?  What  cared  it  for 
the  pangs  of  hunger,  for  the  ditch  deathbed?     Ob- 

[105] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

livious  of  all,  it  sang  the  praises  of  Jesus,  content  in 
the  light  and  love  of  His  divine  Presence. 

Over  the  lonely  figure  of  the  Soggarth  creeping 
under  dripping  hedge  and  by  rain-swept  ditch-side, 
it  saw  the  angels  of  heaven  bending  in  lowly  adora- 
tion and  making  his  slow  progress  a  triumphal  pro- 
cession as  they  followed  the  fearless  carrier  of  the 
hidden  Christ  on  his  way  to  the  dying. 

It  was  in  days  like  those,  and  from  deeds  like 
those,  that  the  wondrous  love  that  binds  Ireland  to 
her  Soggarth  sprang — a  love  tender  with  the  ten- 
derness of  humanity,  and  strong  with  the  strength 
of  divine  charity.  No  wonder  that  as  dying  eyes, 
at  the  whisper  of  the  Soggarth,  unclosed  and  looked 
up  to  his,  and  saw  him  busy  with  stole  and  pyx  and 
sacred  oil  —  no  wonder  that  dying  lips  crooned 
gently  and  wove  in  glorious  love  the  soft  syllables 
'*  Aroon,  aroon,  Soggarth  aroon,"  around  him  who 
knelt  there  with  Christ  in  his  hands !  It  was  thus 
that  the  Soggarth  crept  into  the  innermost  sanctuary 
of  Ireland's  heart,  there  to  dwell  forever. 

With  such  leaders,  Draconian  severity  and  dire 
poverty  were  powerless  to  dim  the  faith  and  courage 
of  Irish  hearts.  Men  who  as  babes  lay  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  secret  cave,  pressed  close  to  the  wildly 
beating  breasts  of  their  mothers,  while  the  tread  of 
the  searching  soldiery  rustled  in  the  bracken  out- 
side, soldiers  whose  quarry  was  Catholics,  and  whose 
sport  —  death,  such  men  were  not  likely  to  value 
lightly  the  treasure  that  those  mothers  fought  and 
died  to  keep.      Men  who  in  youth  shared  the  danger 

[106] 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

of  the  Soggarth,  and  knelt  bravely  by  him  as  he 
dried  the  tears  of  Ireland  at  the  holy  Mass  Rock, 
realized  the  grandeur  of  his  sacrifice  and  the  nobility 
of  his  soul,  and  his  spirit  caught  their  young  heart 
and  filled  it,  nor  left  it  till  it  fructified. 

And  how  marvelous  that  fructification  was  is 
shown  on  every  page  of  the  history  of  Ireland's  sons. 
Read  the  page  that  tells  of  the  strong  man  kneeling 
by  the  roadside  in  County  Tyrone,  praying  by  the 
gray  ruins  of  a  little  cabin.  Floor  and  hearth  are 
buried  in  a  moss  of  green,  and  the  walls  —  crum- 
bling at  the  soft  touch  of  time  —  have  sunk  quietly 
back,  till  Erin  holds  them  hidden  in  her  bosom. 
This  is  all  that  remains  of  the  home  where  in  grind- 
ing poverty  the  kneeling  man  was  born.  Tears  are 
in  his  eyes  as  memory  recalls  loved  forms  and  voices 
of  past  days.  Under  those  hedges  he  crept  to  sit 
at  the  feet  of  the  hedge  schoolmaster.  Above  on 
the  mountain-side  is  where  the  rough  wall  of  turf 
stood,  in  the  shelter  of  which  Mass  was  celebrated. 
There  is  the  field  where  as  a  child  he  toiled  with 
his  parents,  a  field  so  poor  that  a  day  came  when  a 
sorrowful  procession  in  helpless  misery  crossed  the 
threshold  before  which  he  is  kneeling.  Down  the 
mountain  boreen  he  can  see  it  move  as  clearly  as  if 
it  were  but  yesterday.  Across  sixty  years  of  time 
he  looks,  and  sees  again  his  crying  mother  trying  to 
comfort  the  bewildered  children,  the  face  of  his  fa- 
ther, strong  amidst  all  his  anguish,  the  farewells  of 
the  kindly  neighbors.  Every  detail  of  the  journey 
is  seared  upon  his  mind  —  the  steerage  passage,  the 

[107] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

landing  in  a  new  country  to  seek  the  rights  denied 
them  in  their  own,  the  beginning  of  life  anew  amid 
strangers.  In  memory  the  kneeling  man  traverses 
the  years,  years  of  toil  vivified  and  directed  by  Irish 
faith,  and  crowned  with  success,  and  he  utters  a 
heartfelt  prayer  to  God  as  he  recalls  how,  through 
all  vicissitudes,  he  had  kept  alight  in  his  heart  the 
flame  of  desire  kindledby  the  example  and  word  of 
the  Soggarth,  that  he  too  might  be  a  priest. 
"  Many  a  time,"  so  his  history  records,  "  many  a 
time  have  I  thrown  down  my  rake  in  the  meadow, 
and  kneeling  behind  a  hayrick,  begged  of  God  and 
the  Blessed  Virgin  to  let  me  become  a  priest." 

And  how  God  heard  his  prayer,  uttered  from  the 
depths  of  the  deepest  poverty,  the  whole  world 
knows.  The  boy  of  the  hayfield,  strong  in  faith, 
conquered  all  obstacles,  and  attained  his  desire. 
And  now,  after  half  a  century,  he  has  come  back  to 
the  field  where  he  uttered  that  prayer  in  his  help- 
lessness, and  kneels  in  thanksgiving  before  the 
moldering  threshold  of  the  little  mountain  cabin  — 
a  mighty  leader  of  men  in  the  land  of  his  adoption, 
John  Hughes,  archbishop  of  New  York. 

And  this  great  archbishop  has  compeers  un- 
numbered, whose  lives  are  vivified  and  purified  by 
measureless  sacrifice.  That  the  faithful  in  Ireland 
to-day  worship  God  in  glorious  cathedrals  is  because 
of  the  sacrifices  of  the  rain-drenched,  starving,  home- 
less, heroic  Soggarths  who  died  that  the  Faith  might 
live  and  Ireland  hold  her  precious  heritage. 

The  Soggarth  of  the  Mass  Rock  has  gone,  but  his 
[108] 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

spirit  burns  in  the  hearts  of  his  successors,  and  the 
grand  old  Faith  remains  like  a  fragrance  hallowing 
hill  and  dale,  lifting  the  soul  of  Ireland  heavenward, 
and  giving  her  the  marvelous  certitude  that  the 
Catholic  faith  alone  can  give  —  a  certitude  that  is 
divine. 

Ireland  is  Ireland  because  of  her  priest.  High 
above  all  her  heroes  in  the  grandeur  of  his  office 
and  in  his  unparalleled  bravery,  yet  bending  in  love 
and  humility  beneath  the  lowliest  of  the  lowly,  the 
Soggarth  stands,  a  glory  to  his  Church  and  to  Ire- 
land, a  splendid  figure  holding  the  key  of  eternity. 


[109] 


CHAPTER  XI 

MOTHERS    OF    IRELAND 

\X7E  have  looked  on  the  splendid  valor  of  the 
*  *  Irish  in  the  cause  of  Him  whom  they  meet  in 
"  the  sweet  Mass,"  and  with  loving,  familiar  rever- 
ence speak  of  as  "  Jesus  Christ,  my  dearest,  my  most 
loyal  Friend." 

We  have  marked  their  steadfastness  through  the 
centuries,  and  seen  how  the  vigor  and  vitality  of  the 
heart  of  Ireland  is  as  strong  to-day  as  ever,  stud- 
ding the  land  with  seminaries  and  monasteries  and 
convents,  homes  of  God,  wherein  His  chosen  ones 
are  trained. 

Mighty  Maynooth,  foremost  among  the  schools 
of  Ireland  of  all  times,  sheltering  and  training  well- 
nigh  a  thousand  Levites,  and  from  whose  broad 
gates  yearly  they  pass  in  a  steady  stream,  that  flows 
out  across  the  land  and  over  the  earth,  stands  in  the 
center.  All  Hallows,  with  its  legion  in  training  for 
the  foreign  mission,  looks  over  the  eastern  sea. 

Between  St.  Columb's  at  Derry  and  St.  Colman's 
in  Cork,  everywhere  are  buildings  filled  with  fervent 
souls,  Christ's  chosen  ones,  who  kneel  around  Him, 
and  whose  one  aim  in  life  is  the  furtherance  of  the 
work  of  the  Master. 

Men  wonder  at  Ireland's  far-flung  armies  of 
[no] 


MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 

priests  and  nuns,  They  marvel  at  this  world- 
moving  energy,  and,  almost  in  bewilderment,  seek 
for  the  force  that  gathers  these  armies  and  sends 
them  across  the  world,  filled  with  undying  en- 
thusiasm. 

This  astonishment  is  but  natural,  for  the  number 
of  vocations  that  God  has  given  to  Ireland,  the  num- 
ber of  her  children  that  He  has  honored  by  choosing 
them  to  follow  Him  closely  and  spend  life  in  His 
service,  would  astonish  us  also,  did  we  not  know  the 
cause  of  the  gift. 

As  we  gaze  at  those  roofs  and  turrets  and  spires 
we  think  of  that  far-flung  army  that  has  marched 
from  beneath  them.  The  mind  in  medfitation  looks 
beyond  those  towering  battlements,  beyond  those 
valiant  soldiers,  and  sees  the  real  supports  of  those 
walls,  the  real  trainers  of  that  army.  Behind  the 
holy  nun  and  brother  in  school  and  hospital,  behind 
each  priest  at  the  altar,  stand  those  who,  after 
Christ,  are  the  foundation  and  motive  force  of  all 
—  the  low-voiced,  sweet-faced,  holy  mothers  of  the 
Irish. 

These  mothers  live  quiet,  simple  lives,  as  did 
God's  chosen  people  of  old  —  tending  their  flocks 
and  supplying  their  few  wants  by  daily  toil. 
Worldly  pleasures  are  weighed  by  them  in  the  bal- 
ance of  Christ,  and  rejected  if  found  wanting. 
Among  them  is  nc  holocaust  of  souls  under  the 
wheels  of  the  juggernaut  car  of  fashion;  no  loss  of 
self-respect  jy  joining  the  rushing  legions  of  the 
votaries   of    3leasure.     In   silent  prayer  and  work 

Cm] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

their  days  are  passed.  Calm  with  the  calmness  that 
comes  from  steadfastly  gazing  at  eternity;  clear  in 
judgment,  with  the  clearness  of  mind  that  belongs 
to  those  who  flash  the  light  of  the  lantern  of  death 
upon  the  things  of  earth;  strong  with  the  strength 
that  grows  from  companionship  with  Christ;  gentle 
with  the  gentleness  that  fills  the  heart  bound  to 
the  heart  of  the  Mother  of  Christ;  living  lives  that 
are  conformed  to  the  will  of  Christ;  dying  they  go 
confidently  to  meet  Him  who  is  to  satisfy  the  daily 
longing  of  their  hearts.  The  empty  world  heeds 
not  their  passing,  but  highest  heaven  rings  with  the 
joyous  anthems  that  the  angels  sing  as  God  welcomes 
them  home. 

Here  we  have  the  source  of  Ireland's  fervent 
ambassadors  of  Christ,  the  fount  from  which  springs 
enthusiasm  for  His  interests,  the  guardian  to  whom 
Christ  has  entrusted  His  soldiers  for  guidance.  It 
is  the  lessons  that  a  man  learns  from  his  mother's 
knee,  the  principles  that  she  instills,  the  courage  that 
she  breathes  into  him,  that  really  influence  him  in 
after  life.  She  it  is  that  takes  the  plastic  soul,  fresh 
from  the  hands  of  God,  and  with  loving  care  can 
mold  that  soul  to  goodness  and  greatness. 

The  Irish  mother  cooperates  with  Christ  in  the 
saving  of  souls,  and  cooperates  willingly,  even 
though  the  pressure  of  the  cross  be  felt  keenly  upon 
her  loving  heart.  Wherever  you  see  her  she  is  at 
God's  work.  The  souls  of  her  children  are  an  in- 
violable trust  to  her  from  God,  and  she  guards  them 
with  her  life.      For  her  the  call  of  earth  unheeded 

[112] 


MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 

falls  on  ears  attuned  to  celestial  music,  the  chords 
of  which  ever  vibrate  in  her  heart. 

God's  praises  are  ever  on  her  lips  in  frequent 
speech.  She  passes  her  days  calling  down  blessings 
on  all  whom  she  meets.  "  Bannacth  lath  " —  a 
blessing  with  you.  "  A  thousand  praises  to  God  " 
springs  naturally  from  her  heart,  whatever  befalls 
her.  How  cold  our  "  thank  you  "  for  a  favor  re- 
ceived sounds,  when  contrasted  with  her  "  may  God 
spare  your  life,"  "  may  the  Lamb  of  God  be  with 
you  at  the  hour  of  death,"  or  "  may  God  and  Mary 
protect  you." 

Well  might  she  sit  for  the  portrait  of  the  valiant 
woman  of  Sacred  Scripture.  "  The  heart  of  her 
husband  trusteth  in  her;  she  will  render  him  good, 
not  evil,  all  the  days  of  her  life."  We  have  seen 
how  "  she  hath  opened  her  heart  to  the  needy,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  poor,"  and  noted  that 
"  the  law  of  clemency  is  on  her  tongue." 

Mark  her  well  as  she  moves  with  swift  hands 
through  the  daily  working  for  her  subjects — "she 
hath  looked  well  to  the  paths  of  her  house  and  hath 
not  eaten  her  bread  idle  ";  and  at  night  as  she  sits 
at  the  wide  hearth  "  her  lingers  have  taken  hold  of 
the  spindle." 

Need  we  wonder  that  "  her  children  rose  up  and 
called  her  blessed,  her  husband,  and  he  praised 
her,"  for  "  the  woman  that  loveth  the  Lord  she 
shall  be  praised  —  let  her  works  praise  her  in  the 
gates." 

The  children  of  such  mothers  early  learn  the  path 
[H3] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

to  the  church.  To  see  a  mother  taking  a  child 
around  the  Stations  of  the  Cross,  and  hear  her  ex- 
plaining in  words  of  burning  love  the  meaning  of 
each,  from  the  shouldering  of  the  cross  in  Pilate's 
court  to  the  lonely  funeral,  with  Mary  as  chief 
mourner,  is  a  never-to-be-forgotten  lesson  in  faith 
and  holiness.  This  is  the  training  that  is  responsible 
for  the  spirit  of  wonderfully  vivid  faith  that  is  to 
be  seen  everywhere,  and  which  fructifies  in  number- 
less vocations. 

God  to  this  people  is  not  a  mysterious  distant 
Being,  whose  existence  is  scarce  realized,  or  at  most 
only  carelessly  thought  of,  and  given  no  place  in 
their  lives,  but  a  beneficent  Creator  and  loving 
Friend,  ceaselessly  guarding  them  as  a  parent  does 
a  child;  One  who  in  His  splendid  love  has  come 
down  and  actually  dwells  with  them,  and  who,  their 
King,  is  always  ready  to  give  them  audience  in  His 
throne-room  —  the  church. 

That  the  Christ  of  Calvary  —  of  Bethlehem,  is 
their  closest  Friend,  and  a  sacred  member  of  the 
family,  can  readily  be  seen  by  him  who  watches  the 
loving  affection  that  is  shown  by  those  who  kneel  on 
Christmas  morn  before  the  crib,  or  are  bent  in 
reverence  before  the  crucifix,  and  who  marks  how 
they  move  through  their  lives  in  converse  with  Him. 
For  these  the  tabernacle  has  no  door  —  they  look 
direct  to  the  Heart  of  Christ. 

Thus  it  comes  that  the  child  going  to  school  stops 
its  play  as  it  approaches  the  church,  and  runs  to 
kneel  for  a  moment  at  the  altar  rail;  that  the  work- 

[114] 


MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 

man  going  to  and  from  work  kneels  before  his  best 
Friend;  and  young  men  and  maidens  slip  quietly 
in,  faithful  to  the  training  of  the  mother. 

Look  at  eventide  at  the  home  hallowed  by  the 
presence  of  the  Irish  mother.  Whether  it  be  amid 
the  long  sea-arms  of  Kerry,  the  blue  mountains  of 
Donegal  and  Antrim,  on  the  green  pastures  of  Meath 
or  the  towering  hills  of  Wicklow,  all  the  members 
of  each  household  go  moving  rapidly  to  where  she 
sits  waiting,  rosary  in  hand,  by  the  hallowed  hearth. 
The  father  comes  from  the  forge  or  the  shop  of  the 
shoemaker,  where  he  has  been  "  colloguing  "  with 
the  elders,  and  the  boys  leave  their  games.  Round 
her  they  kneel,  and  she  begins  the  evening  prayer 
of  Ireland  —  the  rosary  of  their  Mother,  Muire. 

Nightly  the  angels  look  down  and  exult  as  they 
see  the  nation  kneeling  before  God,  and  hear  that 
mighty  cry  for  succor.  Ireland,  bound  by  the  chain 
of  the  rosary  to  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven. 

And  oh !  how  they  love  that  home !  For  them 
the  word  is  sacred,  and  means  a  kingdom,  wherein 
the  mother  reigns  securely  "  until  death  do  us 
part,"  words  of  the  sacrament,  that  have  meaning 
when  uttered  by  her  lips.  No  matter  how  lowly 
the  home  may  be,  nothing  but  stress  of  circum- 
stance will  ever  cause  them  to  leave  it. 

I  remember  seeing  an  old  Irish  mother  as  she 
crossed  for  the  last  time  the  threshold  of  what  had 
once  been  her  home  and  that  of  generations  of  her 
people  before  her.  The  roof  had  been  torn  off, 
and  the  broken  windows,  like  sightless  eyes,  stared 

[us] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

dark  across  the  white  road  from  the  tomb  of 
domestic  happiness  behind  them. 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  earth  in  a  passion  of 
tears.  Lying  there,  quivering  with  anguish,  she 
pressed  her  lips  again  and  again  to  the  stone 
threshold  of  the  door,  the  stone  that  is  looked  upon 
as  holy  because  of  the  generations  of  lips  that  have 
uttered  the  prayer  of  welcome  above  it.  Worn 
deep  by  countless  footsteps,  it  was  sanctified  by  the 
unending  litany  "  God's  blessing  on  you  "  of  every 
one  who  entered  the  house. 

Poor  grief-stricken  soul!  How  often  through 
the  years  she  had  cheerily  answered  that  salutation 
uttered  above  the  stone,  now  wet  with  her  tears. 
As  she  said  farewell  to  the  wreckage  that  was  all 
that  was  left  of  her  home,  she  saw  once  again  the 
faces  of  long-lost  friends  as  they  stood  above  it. 
She  peopled  the  past  with  loved  forms,  and  the 
"  God  save  all  here  "  and  the  "  God  save  you 
kindly  "  of  dear  dead  voices  sounded  in  her  ear  and 
beat  upon  her  heart. 

This  intense  love  of  home  is  the  source  of  one  of 
the  greatest  of  Ireland's  sorrows,  causing  an  unend- 
ing heartache,  not  only  to  her  exiled  children,  but 
to  the  waiting  mothers  as  well.  How  like  to  Mary, 
dwelling  alone  in  her  house  at  Nazareth,  are  those 
mothers  of  the  chosen  ones  laboring  in  the  service 
of  God.  They  guarded  the  treasure  lent  to  them  by 
God,  and  wrapped  it  round  with  their  love  and  their 
life.     Then  at  His  call,  even  though  it  meant  sever- 

[116] 


MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 

ance  from  the  "light  of  their  life,"  they  gave  that 
treasure  willingly  for  work  in  the  vineyard  of  the 
Master.  Just  as  Mary  moved  through  the  silent 
rooms  of  Nazareth,  when  her  loved  One  had  gone, 
living  again  the  bygone  days,  and  praying  for  re- 
union, so,  too,  do  these  heroines  —  mothers  of  the 
battalions  of  Maynooth,  of  the  golden  souls  that 
have  passed  under  the  portals  of  All  Hallows,  and 
of  saintly  Irish  nuns.  And  like  Mary,  their  reunion 
with  their  loved  ones  will  come  only  when  the  gates 
of  death  shall  have  been  passed. 

Besides  those  mothers  who  have  given  their 
children  for  God's  work,  other  mothers  there  are, 
parted  from  their  children  by  the  accidents  of  life, 
who  sit  at  home  wearily  waiting  for  the  sound  of  a 
step  that  never  falls.  Yet,  though  separated  by 
wide,  rolling  seas,  there  is  no  sundering  of  hearts. 
From  every  land  on  earth,  filaments  of  love,  tying 
heart  to  heart,  white-winged  messages  of  affection 
are  flashing.  Like  snowflakes  they  drift  across  the 
seas,  and  come  pouring  down  in  Ireland.  Over  the 
fields  and  the  brown  bogs  they  fly,  into  the  moun- 
tains and  the  hills,  till  they  come  to  rest  in  the 
hands  of  the  loved  ones  waiting.  Whence  come 
these  snowflakes?  They  come  from  Erin's  children 
"  on  the  waves  of  the  world,"  sending  their  love 
and  its  tokens.  Letters  of  the  scattered  children 
of  the  homes,  they  speed  to  the  heart  of  the  waiting 
mother,  and  still  for  the  moment  its  longing.  Love 
that  is  true  finds  expression  in  deeds,  and  this  quality 

[117] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

is  not  wanting  in  the  love  of  the  exiles,  for  in  the 
space  of  twenty  years  they  have  sent  to  their  homes 
as  many  million  pounds  sterling. 

When  darkness  instead  of  light  is  sent  to  them 
across  the  sea,  consolation  and  resignation,  touching 
to  see,  comes  to  them  from  their  fervent  faith. 

I  knew  a  mother  whose  only  son  —  the  center  of 
all  her  hopes  and  affections  —  was  killed  in  America. 
No  one  could  summon  up  courage  to  break  the  news 
to  her.  On  the  following  Sunday  a  thoughtless 
half-witted  creature  went  to  her  as  she  knelt  in 
prayer  after  Mass. 

"  Sorry,"  she  said,  "  that  your  son  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  mother,  "  he  is  not  dead,  he  is 
quite  well." 

"He  is  dead,"  insisted  the  simpleton;  "a  big 
beam  fell  on  him  and  crushed  him,  but  they  don't 
want  to  let  you  know." 

She  gazed  horror-stricken  at  some  neighbors 
near,  and  they  reluctantly  confirmed  the  truth  of 
the  words  of  the  foolish  speaker.  Reeling  under 
the  blow,  the  poor  mother  clung  to  the  communion 
rail,  moaning  piteously.  After  the  first  rush  of 
overmastering  grief  had  passed,  she  steadied  herself, 
clasped  her  hands,  and  with  eyes  raised  to  the 
tabernacle,  cried  thrice:  "God's  will  be  done!" 
and  added:  "  Oh,  Jesu  mavourneen,  he  is  safer  arid 
happier  with  You  than  with  those  that  do  not  know 
You  in  America !  " 

There  is  a  little  village  on  the  central  plain  of 
Ireland  —  just    a    cluster    of    white-walled    cabins 

[..8] 


MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 

sheltered  by  a  clump  of  dark  pine  tiees,  circled  by 
the  purple  of  the  moor.  In  one  of  these  dwells  a 
typical  Irish  mother.  Filled  with  a  gentle  dignity 
is  she,  and  contented,  although  measured  by  worldly 
standards  her  life  might  seem  lonely  and  hard.  She 
is  ever  patient  and  calm.  Leaning  on  her  staft 
she  says  to  the  sympathetic  visitor:  "  Our  Lord  is 
good,  and  He  wishes  me  to  suffer;  welcome  be  His 
holy  will."  This  is  how  she  explains  the  paralysis 
with  which  she  is  afflicted.  All  ner  cniidren  are 
in  America  and  "  doing  well,  thank  God.'5  They 
have  written  often,  begging  her  to  come  to  them, 
but  she  always  refuses.  She  wishes  to  be  buried 
in  the  shadow  of  the  church  in  which  she  was  bap- 
tized, and  "  go  to  heaven  from  Ireland."  She  has 
their  photographs  ranged  above  the  fireplace,  and 
before  them  the  live-long  day  she  sits,  rosary 
In  hand,  "  taking  the  full  of  my  eyes  of  them, 
and  praying  for  them,  for  they  need  prayers 
living  among  those  who  never  darken  a  church 
door." 

What  a  shield  between  her  loved  ones  and  evil 
are  the  prayers  of  that  holy  soul!  There  she  is 
sitting  to-day,  with  a  smile  of  greeting  for  all  who 
visit  her  in  her  home  in  the  center  of  the  land  of 
faith  and  of  prayer. 

"  There  are  saints  e'en  to-day  in  Old  Erin,  who  walk  along 
life's  lowly  ways, 
From  whose  hearts  there  is  ever  ascending  the  tribute  of 
love  and  of  praise. 

[119] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Like  the  gold  that  is  tried  in  the  furnace,  their  souls  come 

triumphant  through  pain, 
For  they  trust  in  the  word  of  the  Master,  and  welcome 

each  cross  as  their  gain." 


An  Irish  mother!  She  is  foremost  among  the 
hidden  saints  of  earth.  A  follower  of  Christ,  whose 
cloister  is  within  the  four  walls  of  the  home,  wherein 
she  reigns  as  a  queen!  A  lover  of  Christ,  whose 
little  kingdom  comprises  the  treasured  souls  that 
God  has  given  her  to  guide.  A  ruler  for  Christ, 
who  draws  her  subjects  to  her  by  sanctity  and  love. 
Her  toil-worn  hands  that  clasp  the  old  brown  rosary 
are  eloquent  of  strength  to  seize  and  lift  to  good 
all  souls  they  meet;  her  lips  are  molded  to  lines 
of  peace  by  years  of  unending  prayer  and  murmured 
benisons  over  sleeping  babes;  upon  her  brow  eternal 
calm  and  resignation  sit  enthroned;  her  eves  are 
lit  by  the  light  of  serene  confidence,  that  tells  of  a 
heart  secure  in  the  friendship  of  God. 

0  Irish  mothers!  You  know  God,  and  know 
nothing  apart  from  Him!  You  acknowledge  no 
success  that  is  obtained  without  Him!  You  meas- 
ure the  earth  with  the  breadth  of  vision  that  comes 
from  the  contemplation  of  eternity! 

Patient  with  the  patience  of  the  martyr!  Strong 
with  the  strength  of  Christ!  The  very  sight  of  you 
lifts  men's  thoughts  to  God,  for  O  Irish  mothers! 
you  are  the  living  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  our 
faith. 

1  look  back  to  Ireland,  and  hear  the  prayers  of 

[ 1 2°] 


MOTHERS  OF  IRELAND 

Irish  mothers  filling  the  land,  as  they  send  shafts 
of  love  in  incessant  pleading  to  the  Creator  on  be- 
half of  their  dear  ones,  and  I  know  that  the  future 
of  Ireland  is  safe  while  that  army  of  mothers  moves 
through  her  valleys  and  across  her  plains,  bringing 
Christ's  benison  on  their  country.  No  wonder  that 
they  are  holy,  for  what  is  sanctity  but  poverty  and 
perfect  conformity  to  the  will  of  God! 

Saintly  Irish  mothers!  Pray  for  us  to  the 
Sacred  Heart  of  Him  whom  you  know  and  love  so 
well! 


[121] 


CHAPTER  XII 

MARTYRDOM    OF    IRELAND 

r  I  ^HE  martyrdom  of  Ireland  forms  one  of  the 
-*■  most  awful  and  yet  one  of  the  most  glorious 
pages  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Awful,  in  the 
deliberate  malignity  of  the  long  persecution; 
glorious,  in  the  splendid  valor  of  the  faith  that 
triumphed  over  all.  Christendom  knows  no  parallel 
to  this  page  of  Irish  history.  Bitter  persecutions 
it  had  felt  from  the  earliest  ages;  but  never  before 
had  it  seen  a  whole  nation,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, unfalteringly  climb  Calvary  to  crucifixion; 
never  before  had  it  seen  the  martyrdom  of  a  people. 
The  Island  of  Saints  and  Scholars  was  to  pass 
through  the  furnace  of  suffering,  and  become  the 
Island  of  Martyrs. 

The  guilt  and  shame  of  this  martyrdom  is  to  be 
laid,  not  upon  the  English  people,  but  upon  those 
in  power,  and  their  hirelings.  History  has  shown 
again  and  again  that  where  the  sister  nations  meet 
in  knowledge,  friendship  always  follows.  Unfor- 
tunately, Ireland  was  either  unknown,  or  known  only 
as  painted  by  the  tongue  of  calumny,  to  the  great 
body  of  the  English  nation.  This  in  great  measure 
is  true  even  to-day. 

We  set  forth  the  story  of  her  martyrdom,  not  to 

[122] 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

perpetuate  strife  (God  forbid!);  but  to  show  the 
grandeur  of  the  national  spirit  of  faith  that  carried 
Ireland  triumphant  over  all,  and  the  splendid  spirit 
of  forgiveness  —  Christlike  because  copied  from 
Christ  —  that  she  has  ever  shown  towards  those 
who  smote  her  so  cruelly.  Poor  Ireland,  prostrate 
in  agony,  blinded  and  bleeding  from  the  lash,  has 
again  and  again  raised  her  weary  head,  and  given 
her  hand  in  friendship  when  the  scourger's  heart 
seemed  softened  towards  her,  imitating  her  cross- 
nailed  Leader,  and  giving  to  the  world  a  noble  ex- 
ample of  sublime  Christian  charity,  that  lifted  her 
above  all  worldly  wisdom. 

Ireland  for  a  thousand  years  had  been  a  beacon 
of  the  faith  to  Europe  and  a  center  of  civilization 
and  culture,  driving  back  the  darkness  of  paganism 
from  the  nations.  But  heresy  smote  where  pagan- 
ism failed,  and  wave  on  wave  of  fanatical  hate  rolled 
across  the  land  in  determined  endeavor  to  quench 
that  light.  For  be  it  always  remembered  that  ad- 
herence to  the  ancient  faith  was  the  primary  cause 
of  Ireland's  being  broken  on  the  wheel.  The  priest 
was  described  as  a  beast  to  be  extirpated,  and  was 
classified  with  the  wolf.  A  lord  lieutenant  declared 
that  "  if  the  priests  had  not  been  in  Ireland  the 
troubles  would  not  have  arisen."  In  1641  both 
Houses  of  Parliament  in  England  declared  that  they 
would  never  give  their  consent  to  any  toleration  of 
the  Catholic  religion  in  Ireland,  or  in  any  part  of 
his  majesty's  dominions.  Every  church  was  de- 
stroyed,   every    altar    desecrated,    every    tabernacle 

[123] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

broken,  in  vain  endeavor  to  tear  the  Faith  from 
the  heart  of  the  nation.  To  be  a  Catholic  was  to 
be  a  traitor  and  a  rebel.  All  that  was  needed  to 
escape  this  stigma  was  to  relinquish  the  Faith,  and 
"  nothing  more  would  be  required  of  them."  This 
Ireland  would  not  do.  When  she  had  to  choose  be- 
tween following  God  and  His  Church  and  being 
recreant  to  Him,  Ireland  —  true  to  her  traditions  — 
never  hesitated.  She  entered  unflinchingly  upon  her 
long-drawn  agony,  an  agony  that  began  with  the 
Tudors  .of  the  Reformation,  steadily  increased  in 
horror  until  the  summit  of  Calvary  was  reached  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  and  Ireland  was  nailed  to 
the  cross  of  the  penal  laws. 

It  is  sad  reading,  for  it  tells  of  a  deliberate  at- 
tempt to  annihilate  a  nation  for  no  crime  but  the 
desire  to  worship  God. 

Emissaries  of  the  Tudors  traversed  the  land, 
burning  and  slaying.  Corn  and  cattle,  the  support 
of  the  people,  were  seized,  and  nothing  left  but 
"  ashes  and  carcasses."  The  soil  was  taken  by  a 
horde  of  hungry  adventurers,  and  the  nation,  de- 
spoiled of  food  and  homes  and  land,  stood  help- 
lessly starving  on  the  highway.  The  people  saw 
their  houses  and  lands  occupied  by  strangers,  who 
had  thrown  them  out  because  they  were  Irish  and 
Catholic.  One  Sir  W.  Cole  reports  that  "  we 
starved  and  famished  7,000  of  the  vulgar  sort, 
whose  goods  were  seized  on  by  my  regiment."  In 
Elizabeth's  time  the  sword  was  not  sheathed  until 
fertile  Munster  was  left  a  wilderness,  where  a  few 

[■Hi 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

shadows  of  men  crawled  feebly  through  the  woods, 
striving  to  escape  from  the  oppressor,  who 
slaughtered  all  even  to  the  cradled  babe,  and  gloried 
in  the  fact  that  he  "  strangled  the  cubs  "  of  the  Irish 
wherever  he  found  them. 

But  the  nation  sank  to  deeper  depths  of  woe 
under  the  Stuarts  and  Cromwell.  Men  look  back 
in  horror  to  the  burning  of  Rome  by  Nero,  who  sang 
and  played  in  the  glare  of  the  flames:  the  burning  of 
Rome  was  but  a  spark  beside  the  Cromwellian  blaze 
that  left  Ireland  a  blackened  waste,  a  blaze  lit  by 
those  who  sang  psalms  as  they  burnt  and  impaled. 

Through  the  smoking  ruins  the  survivors  of  the 
people  were  driven  before  the  thrusting  steel,  held 
by  marauders  who  knew  neither  justice  nor  mercy, 
and  who,  amid  scenes  of  horror  almost  without 
parallel,  ceased  not  to  harass  them  even  when, 
starving  and  dying,  they  went  streaming  through 
the  boulder  wastes  of  Connaught. 

The  nation  was  proscribed,  and  the  Catholic 
nobility  and  gentry  were  declared  "  incapable  of 
pardon,  of  life,  or  estate,"  and  were  banished  to 
Connaught,  then  a  waste  so  ravaged  that  many 
chose  death  or  transportation  sooner  than  face  its 
rigors.  Death  was  the  penalty  decreed  for  the 
Catholic  found  east  of  the  Shannon.  Complete 
annihilation  seemed  to  be  the  end  aimed  at,  and  it 
would  have  been  attained  but  that  the  manhood 
of  many  of  the  officers  and  soldiers  revolted  against 
their  instructions,  and  they  secretly  showed  mercy 
to  the  outcasts. 

[125] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Whole  towns,  cleared  of  inhabitants,  became  deso- 
late; farms  became  wastes.  The  fine  port  of  Gal- 
way  fell  into  ruin  when  the  Irish  were  swept  beyond 
its  walls,  and  thel  houses  were  offered  to  Liver- 
pool merchants.  Parliament  paid  its  debts  by  giv- 
ing streets  of  empty  houses  to  its  creditors.  For 
instance,  it  freed  itself  of  its  obligation  to  a  Cap- 
tain Arthur  by  giving  him  200  houses  in  Wexford. 

Fire,  sword,  and  famine  killed  swiftly,  but  not 
swiftly  enough  for  the  destroyers.  Ireland  was  to 
know  yet  another  horror.  It  seems  incredible  to- 
day, but  none  the  less  it  is  too  true,  that  :hat  human 
monster,  the  slave  trader,  was  called  in  to  hasten 
the  death  of  the  nation.  The  horror  that  prowled 
in  the  darkness  of  the  jungles  of  Africa  w?.c  let 
loose  upon  defenseless  Ireland.  Fair  maidens  and 
youths  were  seized,  carried  shrieking  to  slave  ships, 
and  sold  to  West  Indian  planters  to  wear  out  their 
lives  as  slaves  under  the  lash  of  the  plantation 
overseer.  For  thirty-three  years  these  ghouls  took 
their  toll  of  Irish  lives  —  a  toll  that  is  variously 
estimated  at  from  20,000  to  100,000. 

But  all  efforts,  even  the  bloodiest,  were  vain. 
The  oppressor  learned  that  to  attempt  to  annihilate 
a  nation  is  to  attempt  the  impossible.  Ireland  lived 
and  Ireland  grew,  upheld  by  her  Catholic  spirit. 
As  strength  came  back  to  her  sorely  stricken  body, 
animated  by  her  unconquered  Catholic  soul,  she 
dauntlessly  staggered  back  to  where  the  stranger 
held  her  homes,  heedless  of  the  death  that  still 
menaced  her.     Across  the  Shannon,  with  its  edging 

[126] 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

of  bayonets  and  high-swung  gallows  noose,  the 
people  came  creeping,  starving  in  the  morasses,  hid- 
ing in  the  woods,  back  across  the  lands  from  which 
they  had  been  driven.  With  indomitable  courage 
they  waited  through  the  years,  until  their  oppres- 
sors were  forced  to  acknowledge  their  presence 
and  permitted  them  to  exist,  though  on  the  barest 
sufferance.  In  the  eyes  of  the  law  they  had  no 
existence.  In  1759  a  Catholic  was  told  by  a  judge 
on  the  bench  that  "  the  laws  do  not  presume  a 
Papist  to  exist  in  the  kingdom,  nor  can  they  breathe 
without  the  connivance  of  the  Government."  If 
such  a  judge  had  controlled  the  atmosphere,  Ireland 
would  have  been  in  danger  of  national  asphyxiation. 
A  Parliament  was  placed  in  the  country,  but  no 
Catholic  could  sit  in  it,  and  of  it  Lecky  tells  us  — 
"  few  legislative  bodies  ever  exhibited  a  more  savage 
intolerance  than  the  Irish  Parliament  in  the  first 
quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century."  It  passed  meas- 
ures designed  to  leave  the  Irish  nothing  but  their 
eyes  to  weep  with.  Catholics  were  excluded  from 
government,  from  all  professions,  from  the  army 
and  navy,  from  all  civil  offices.  They  had  no  rights 
of  inheritance,  no  schools,  no  churches.  In  the  ef- 
fort to  keep  them  in  a  state  of  perpetual  serfdom, 
it  was  decreed  that  they  could  not  legally  possess 
property  greater  in  value  than  a  few  pounds.  Un- 
der this  law,  for  example,  if  a  Protestant  met  a 
Catholic  riding  a  horse  worth  more  than  £5,  he  could 
tender  him  £5,  and  there  and  then  seize  the  horse 
as  his  own.     The  law  pursued  the  poor   Catholic 

[127] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

even  after  death,  and  forbade  him  burial  in  conse- 
crated ground. 

Until  the  Emancipation  Act  of  1829,  no  Catholic 
took  part  in  the  government  of  Ireland.  The  aim 
of  the  Parliament  was  to  prevent  "  the  growth  of 
Popery,"  and  to  this  end  its  penal  code  was  shaped. 
Of  this  Edmund  Burke  says: 

"  The  code  against  the  Catholics  was  a  machine 
of  wise  and  elaborate  contrivance,  and  as  well  fitted 
for  the  oppression,  impoverishment,  and  degradation 
of  a  people,  and  the  abasement  in  them  of  human 
nature  itself,  as  ever  proceeded  from  the  perverted 
ingenuity  of  man." 

All  industry  was  crushed,  even  the  very  fisheries, 
and  a  state  of  constant  starvation  resulted.  The 
straits  to  which  the  people  were  reduced  may  be 
judged  from  the  fact  that  every  week  "  the  cattle 
were  bled,  and  their  blood  boiled  with  sorrel  gave 
the  poor  a  miserable  sustenance." 

Having  thus  reduced  them,  one  of  the  oppressors 
can  ask  "  whether  there  be  upon  earth  any  Christian 
or  civilized  people  so  beggarly  wretched  and  desti- 
tute as  the  common  I»ish." 

The  same  gentleman,  the  Protestant  bishop, 
Berkeley,  advised  that  "  all  able-bodied  vagrants 
should  be  compelled  to  work  in  public  and  in 
chains."  And  this,  after  creating  a  nation  of  home- 
less wanderers ! 

Famine  followed  the  blaze  of  the  spoiler's  torch, 

[128] 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

and  pestilence  followed  famine.  Ireland's  cup  of 
sorrow  overflowed.  Five-sixths  of  the  people 
perished.  It  was  a  land  of  silence  and  of  death. 
Wolves  prowled  along  the  deserted  roads,  tearing 
unburied  bodies. 

As  if  the  destroying  angel  had  visited  it,  the  na- 
tion lay  at  its  last  gasp.  The  roads  were  littered 
with  the  dead,  the  dying  lay  by  the  cold  hearth. 

An  English  member  of  Parliament,  speaking  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  said: 

"  The  priest  and  the  pauper  famishing  together: 
no  inquests,  no  rites,  no  record  even;  the  high  road 
a  charnel  house,  the  land  a  chaos;  a  ruined  pro- 
prietary, a  panic-stricken  tenantry;  the  soil  untilled, 
the  work-house  a  pest;  death,  desolation,  and  de- 
spair reigning  through  the  land." 

Criticizing  the  neglect  of  those  in  power,  the 
Protestant  minister,  Sydney  Smith,  uses  these 
scathing  words: 

"  Profligacy  in  taking  office  is  so  extreme  that  we 
have  no  doubt  public  men  may  be  found  who  for 
half  a  century  would  postpone  all  remedies  for  a 
pestilence  if  the  preservation  of  their  places  de- 
pended upon  the  propagation  of  the  virus." 

Side  by  side  with  this  campaign  of  deliberate 
physical  starvation,  determined  efforts  were  con- 
stantly made  to  reduce  Ireland  to  a  state  of  spiritual 
starvation.  To  this  end  the  priests  had  been  killed, 
the  churches  destroyed,  and  heresy  set  up  in  their 
place.     Tithes  were  laid  upon  the  country  to  support 

[129] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

heresy,  and  wrung  by  force  from  the  helpless  poor. 
A  powerful  host  of  wealthy  proselytizers  harassed 
and  threatened  the  people.  They  invaded  the 
cabins  of  the  starving,  tempting  them  with  an 
abundance  of  well-cooked  food  as  the  price  of  apos- 
tasy. But  Ireland  recoiled  in  even  greater  horror 
from  these  vampires,  whose  prey  was  souls,  than  she 
did  from  the  slave  traders1  who  trafficked  in  the 
bodies  of  her  people. 

Through  all  this  horror  of  bloodshed  and  op- 
pression, one  main  end  was  aimed  at  —  the  extirpa- 
tion of  the  Catholic  Faith.  This  is  evident  from 
their  words  and  laws  as  we  have  already  seen,  and  is 
most  clearly  shown  in  the  conduct  of  the  oppressors 
towards  the  sacred  ministers  of  our  religion. 
Bishops  and  priests  were  hunted  and  killed  at  sight 
by  wandering  bands  of  soldiers.  Paid  spies 
swarmed  over  the  land,  hunting  and  harrying  priests. 
Torture  was  their  common  fate  when  caught.  The 
head  of  a  bishop  earned  a  reward  of  £50,  of  a 
priest  £30,  of  a  teacher  £10.  When  forces  sur- 
rendered on  terms,  priests  were  always  excepted, 
and  death  was  the  penalty  that  awaited  them.  One 
proclamation  ran: 

"  And  for  the  Jesuits,  priests,  friars,  monks,  and 
nuns,  £20  will  be  given  to  any  that  can  bring  cer- 
tain intelligence  where  any  of  them  are.  And  who- 
soever doth  harbor  or  conceal  any  one  of  them  is  to 
forfeit  life  and  estate." 

Strike  the  shepherd,  and  the  sheep  will  be  scat- 
tered, was  the  motto  of  the  oppressor;  but  the  most 

[130] 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

pitiless  striking,  with  armies  as  the  hammer,  and 
torture  and  death  as  the  anvil,  not  only  proved 
powerless  to  separate  the  shepherds  from  their 
flocks,  but  it  bound  them  together  more  closely. 
This  martyrdom  joined  priests  and  people  in  an  in- 
dissoluble union,  closer  even  than  that  which  binds 
earthly  parent  and  child. 

The  priests  did  their  duty  in  the  face  of  death. 
In  all  manner  of  disguises  they  pressed  through 
deadly  dangers,  succoring  their  loved  people. 
Young  Levites  stole  across  to  Europe,  and  entered 
the  "  Irish  Colleges  "  that  were  founded  by  nations 
that  felt  for  Ireland  in  her  extremity.  At  Louvain, 
Salamanca,  Seville,  Lisbon,  Paris,  and  Rome  these 
colleges  stood,  and  from  them,  with  the  oil  of  or- 
dination fresh  upon  their  hands,  patriotic  priests 
came  back  to  labor  in  the  gloom  of  the  mountain 
cave,  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  hedge,  willingly 
facing  martyrdom  that  Ireland  might  keep  true. 
They  met  death  with  the  laugh  of  a  twofold  love  on 
their  lips,  love  of  Christ  and  love  of  Ireland. 

Thus  it  was  that,  despite  the  fact  that  for  over 
two  hundred  years  the  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass  —  the 
center  of  Christianity  —  had  been  forbidden  by  law 
in  Ireland,  the  Holy  Sacrifice  never  ceased,  and  was 
offered  over  the  whole  of  the  land.  It  was  cele- 
brated in  lowly  cabin,  on  the  granite  Mass  Rock,  on 
fallen  tree-trunk,  and  in  dark  Mass  cave,  in  the 
presence  of  multitudes  who  knew  that  detection 
meant  death. 

It  was  the  possession  of  the  divine  strength  of  the 

[131] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Mass  and  Communion  that  enabled  the  nation  to 
live  through  those  awful  centuries,  and  be  as  fear- 
lessly Catholic  at  the  end  of  them  as  she  was  in  the 
days  of  St.  Patrick.  Strengthened  by  the  Divine 
Presence,  the  Irish  nation  emerged  from  the  fearful 
ordeal  even  more  strong  and  determined  and 
Catholic  than  it  was  when  the  storm  first  broke. 
God  fought  on  their  side,  and  like  another  Chosen 
People,  strong  in  His  Presence,  His  tabernacle  as 
their  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  His  Church  as  their 
Pillar  of  Fire,  they  feared  no  enemy.  The  faster 
the  blood  of  the  martyrs  flowed,  the  stronger  grew 
the  Church. 

In  the  year  1672,  when  Cromwell  had  wreaked 
his  will,  the  Catholics  numbered  only  800,000,  out 
of  the  total  population  of  1,100,000.  Bitter  perse- 
cution was  carried  on  for  centuries;  and  at  their 
close,  the  Church  that  men  thought  they  had  beaten 
flat  to  the  earth  in  utter  destruction  had  grown  to 
a  mighty  edifice,  towering  over  all,  joining  Ireland 
to  heaven,  and  impervious  to  all  assaults.  In  the 
year  1834  the  Irish  nation  numbered  7,943,840 
souls,  of  whom  the  magnificent  number  6,427,718 
were  Catholic! 

Such  a  marvelous  increase  was  truly  supernatural, 
for  everything  from  a  natural  point  of  view  was 
against  it.  The  Catholics  had  to  live  under  iniq- 
uitous laws,  whose  purpose  was  to  pauperize,  de- 
grade, and  destroy  them.  Of  those  6,000,000 
people,  the  vast  majority,  nearly  5,000,000,  lived 
in  houses  of  one  room  each,  and  could  be  evicted 

[132] 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

at  any  moment;  "  pay  the  rent  "  was  the  only  alter- 
native to  being  flung  on  the  road. 

Then,  little  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  despite 
the  fact  that  food  was  plentiful,  famine  fell  upon 
the  land,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  Ireland  became  a 
poorhouse  and  a  cemetery.  One-sixth  of  the 
6,000,000  perished,  and  the  Church  was  again  re- 
duced to  her  numbers  of  Cromwellian  days. 

Years  passed,  and  the  enemies  of  the  Church,  in- 
creasing and  multiplying,  began  to  dispute  the 
right  of  the  Catholic  to  hold  that  his  was  the  re- 
ligion of  the  land.  In  1861  the  population  of  Ire- 
land was  5,774,143,  and  the  adherence  of  the 
tithe-supported  Protestant  religion,  the  so-called 
"  Church  of  Ireland,"  called  for  a  census  to  prove 
that  they  were  equal  in  number  to  those  of  the  true 
Faith.  The  census  was  taken,  and  again  heresy 
shrank  back  in  bewilderment,  for  it  was  another 
glorious  triumph  for  the  Church.  From  the  hand- 
ful of  the  faithful  spared  by  the  famine,  our  Church 
had  grown  through  tears  and  poverty  and  repres- 
sion, until  it  numbered  4,490,583  faithful  followers. 

When  will  the  oppressors  of  Catholic  Ireland 
learn  wisdom  from  the  truths  of  history?  The  shafts 
of  persecution  fall  powerless  before  such  a  dauntless 
people.  Firm  in  their  Faith,  they  walked  through 
the  gates  of  death,  for  they  saw  the  God  whom  they 
loved  smiling  a  welcome  to  them.  Through  all 
those  dark  days,  the  soul  of  Ireland  was  untouched 
and  untroubled,  the  heart  of  Ireland  beat  stead- 
fastly, and  the  honor  of  Ireland  was  untarnished. 

[133] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Her  valleys  rang  with  the  moan  of  the  stricken 
ones,  her  hill-sides  blazed  and  smoked  at  the  touch 
of  the  torch  of  the  destroyer;  but  the  light  of  faith 
shone  over  all.  With  magnificent  trust  in  God,  they 
patiently  and  strongly  held  their  way  along  the  path 
of  His  commands.  Their  trials  but  made  for 
national  manhood,  for  heroic  constancy,  a  passionate 
love  of  liberty,  and  enduring  sympathy  with  the 
oppressed.  The  tree  of  Irish  faith,  washed  by  the 
blood  and  watered  by  the  tears  of  the  nation, 
flourished  despite  torture  and  death,  and  spread  its 
branches,  until  to-day  almost  every  nation  on  earth 
finds  shelter  and  sustenance  beneath  it. 

In  the  history  of  other  nations,  special  periods 
are  pointed  to  with  pride,  as  ages  of  faith,  because 
of  the  warmth  of  the  devotion  shown  in  those 
periods  towards  God.  Ireland  knows  no  such 
periods,  for  every  age  with  her  is  an  age  of  faith, 
faith  warm  and  full-hearted. 

The  Irish  ever  lived  in  the  clear  air  of  the  moun- 
tain of  faith,  high  above  the  clouds  of  doubt  and 
despair,  and  have  always  looked  down  with  horror 
and  pity  at  the  morass  of  heresy  through  which  their 
enemies  floundered.  Men  had  striven  to  reduce  the 
nation  to  barbarism,  but  Ireland  was  saved  by  her 
faith,  for  a  nation  that  holds  fast  to  God  can  never 
fall,  nor  cease  to  follow  high  ideals.  The  mind  of 
the  Irishman,  firmly  fixed  on  the  glorious  ideals  of 
the  Catholic  Faith,  found  in  these  a  support  that 
enabled  him  to  ride  triumphant  over  the  billows  of 
fanatic  frenzy  that  in  vain  tried  to  submerge  him. 

[134] 


MARTYRDOM  OF  IRELAND 

More,  guided  by  those  ideals,  he  was  enabled  to 
look  upon  all  with  eyes  of  faith,  and  kept  in  his 
heart  in  a  high  degree  the  supernatural  spirit  of 
Christian  forgiveness. 

These  ideals  kept  the  moral  strength  of  the  na- 
tion, the  true  test  of  national  life,  unimpaired,  ready 
to  leap  into  action  when  opportunity  offered.  It  is 
this  moral  strength  of  the  national  character  that 
keeps  the  Irish  people  moving  steadily  across  an 
ocean  of  sorrow,  battling  against  tides  and  tempests 
that  seem  to  overwhelm,  rudely  buffeted  and  bleed- 
ing, but  pressing  fearlessly  on,  ever  conscious  of 
their  route  and  destination,  confidently  conquering 
all  by  the  magnificent  strength  of  their  faith. 
Stronger  than  the  Israelites  of  old,  who,  when 
trouble  that  seemed  insurmountable  surged  round 
them,  hung  up  their  harps  in  despair,  the  Irish  in 
adversity  but  sound  their  harps  more  strongly,  and 
go  forward  singing  songs  of  Sion. 

For  them,  the  curving  blue  over  Ireland  is  but 
a  thin  veil,  behind  which  dwell  their  martyred  dead: 
a  veil  through  which  Ireland  triumphant  looks  in 
love  and  pride  upon  Ireland  faithful;  a  veil  that 
dims  not  the  memories  and  voices  and  glories  that 
crown  Ireland  with  an  immortal  halo:  a  veil  that 
they  pierce  with  the  eyes  of  vivid  faith,  and  with 
clear  vision  see  Him  whom  they  have  always  trusted, 
and  whom  they  have  always  followed  unfalteringly. 
For  the  strength  of  Ireland  is  the  drinking  of  the 
chalice  of  Christ,  and  the  glory  of  Ireland  is  the 
carrying  of  the  cross  of  Christ. 

[135] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IRISH    IDEALS 

THE  highest  ideal  to  which  man  may  aspire  is 
the  perfect  performance  of  duty.  This  in- 
cludes his  duty  to  God  and  his  duty  to  humanity, 
and  presupposes  a  thorough  knowledge  of  his  des- 
tiny. But  it  is  human  to  go  astray,  and  the  his- 
tory of  nations  is  in  the  main  a  history  of  deserted 
and  buried  ideals.  The  pursuit  of  high  ideals  fructi- 
fies in  noble  thoughts  and  deeds;  the  abandonment 
of  them  means  a  falling  to  a  lower  plane. 

The  tale  of  the  centuries  proves  this,  and  shows 
that  a  nation  cannot  rise  to  greatness  from  the  grave 
of  buried  ideals.  The  march  of  man  across  time  is 
strewn  with  the  bones  of  dead  and  forgotten  na- 
tions, who  fell  from  grandeur  to  annihilation  be- 
cause, relinquishing  ideals  that  would  have  led  them 
to  the  footstool  of  the  Creator,  they  turned  and 
followed  those  that  did  not  rise  above  the  earth. 
Their  history  shows  that  a  nation  that  barters  its 
soul  for  material  ideals  is  a  nation  that  is  doomed. 

The  march  of  nations  is  not  a  slow  struggle  up- 
wards from  barbarism  to  high  ideals,  as  some  would 
have  us  believe;  but,  too  often,  is  a  blinded  descent 
from  honor  and  greatness  to  barbarism,  because  of 
lost  ideals.      It  is  not  evolution  from  the  mythical 

[136] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

"  caveman  "  upwards,  but  a  succession  of  degrading 
fallings  from  the  high  estate  in  which  man  was 
placed  by  God.  With  feet  clogged  by  the  clay  of 
earth,  and  eyes  blinded  by  the  mists  of  earth,  as 
those  without  compass  or  helm,  nations  have  blun- 
dered aimlessly  down  to  nothingness. 

As  the  student  of  the  history  of  mankind  stands 
amazed  at  the  almost  cyclic  regularity  of  the  recur- 
rence of  these  falls,  he  cannot  but  be  struck  bv  one 
notable  and  almost  unique  exception  to  what  seems 
a  universal  law.  That  exception  is  Ireland.  As  he 
unrolls  the  pages  of  the  centuries,  pages  that  tell 
of  the  passing  of  empires  and  the  shattering  of 
civilization,  of  the  discovery  of  new  worlds,  of  new 
languages,  of  new  beliefs,  of  dark  epochs  when  the 
tide  of  ignorance  flowed  full  and  fast  and  barbarism 
threatened  to  rule  supreme,  he  sees  that  Ireland  has 
ever  held  a  level  course,  unmoved  and  confident  in 
every  crisis.  While  others  fall  in  helpless  ruin,  he 
sees  that  nation  for  1,400  years  steadily  progressing 
and  never  declining. 

The  secret  of  her  splendid  strength  is  to  be  found 
in  her  heroic  devotion  to  the  ideals  given  to  her  by 
St.  Patrick,  and  a  comprehension  of  these  is  essential 
for  him  who  would  read  aright  her  history.  In 
giving  Ireland  the  Catholic  faith,  St.  Patrick  gave 
her  the  perfect  way  through  which  to  attain  these 
ideals. 

Nations  curved  away  from  the  straight  path  of 
these  high  ideals  and  entangled  themselves  in  path- 
less wastes  and  morasses,  dark  beneath  the  heavy 

[137] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

clouds  of  doubt  and  unbelief,  while  Ireland  steadily 
followed  the  straight  path  lit  by  the  light  of  the  sun 
of  all  truth. 

Nations  wandered  blindly,  and  unceasingly  pro- 
claimed that  their  aimless  circlings  and  uneasy 
spiralings  meant  progress,  while  materially  and 
morally  they  meant  only  incessant  change  of  direc- 
tion. But  Ireland  kept  valorously  to  the  heights 
and  moved  steadily  and  securely  forward.  Appre- 
ciating the  high  ideals  that  contained  a  truer  test  of 
valor  and  manhood  than  any  she  had  hitherto  known 
and  gave  her  a  field  of  conquest  more  noble  than 
aught  else  on  earth,  despite  the  vicissitudes  of  four- 
teen centuries,  she  has  held  firmly  to  the  faith  that 
gives  form  to  those  ideals. 

Persecution  struck  long  and  hard  at  her  in  an 
endeavor  to  compel  Ireland  to  surrender  her  ideals, 
but  in  vain.  We  have  seen  in  her  martyrdom  how 
for  ages  wave  after  wave  of  oppression  rolled  across 
her  path,  but  did  not  stay  her.  Poverty  and 
pestilence  dogged  her  steps  and  almost  annihilated 
her  children,  but  she  steadily  pushed  beyond  them. 
The  natural  effect  of  grinding  poverty  is  to  degrade 
and  brutalize,  and  of  persistent  pain  is  to  weaken, 
and  to  this  end  they  were  ruthlessly  used  against 
her  by  her  enemies.  Grinding  poverty  and  per- 
sistent pain  were  hers  for  centuries,  and  they  but 
uplifted  and  strengthened  her,  for  the  spiritual 
strength  that  is  hers  because  of  her  fidelity  to  her 
ideal  lifts  her  above  time  and  its  circumstances  and 

[138] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

anchors  her  to  eternity.  Through  all  oppression, 
the  soul  of  Ireland  looked  upwards  unmoved,  her 
honor  untarnished  and  her  heart  faithful. 

A  study  of  this  fact  caused  the  English  Protestant 
statesman,  Mr.  Birrell,  to  utter  these  words: 

"  After  studying  Ireland  for  many  years,  the 
main  feeling  left  in  my  mind  is  how,  after  all  the 
fighting  and  revolution  and  confiscation  and  menace, 
after  all  the  penal  laws  and  famines  and  tithe  wars 
and  coercion  acts,  after  the  destruction  of  native 
industries  and  the  yearly  drain  on  the  population 
by  emigration,  there  are  still  in  Ireland  four  and  a 
half  millions  of  people,  and  the  majority  of  them  still 
adhere  to  their  old  religion.  Such  tenacity  of  faith 
is,  I  believe,  unexampled  in  the  history  of  the  whole 
world.  From  the  time  of  Elizabeth  almost  down 
to  the  time  of  Victoria  to  be  a  Catholic  in  Ireland 
was  to  be  an  outcast.  They  (the  Catholics)  were 
robbed  of  their  lands;  they  were  given  their  choice 
between  'hell  and  Connacht  ' ;  they  were  ousted 
from  portions  of  Ulster  in  favor  of  Scotchmen,  and 
they  were  killed  or  banished  whenever  opportunity 
offered.  But  they  were  neither  annihilated  nor  con- 
verted; and  yet  from  the  time  of  Elizabeth  down- 
ward to  our  own  day,  they  enjoyed  all  the  blessings 
of  the  Protestant  Establishment.  They  had  four 
Protestant  archbishops,  between  twenty  and  thirty 
bishops,  I  do  not  know  how  many  deans  and  a  pa- 
rochial clergy,  all  supported  by  tithes  wrung  out  of 
wretched  tenants,  none  of  whom  ever  entered  the 

[J39] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

place  of  worship  to  which  they  were  compelled  to 
contribute." 

The  sole  and  complete  explanation  of  that  which 
mystified  Mr.  Birrell  is  that  it  is  the  natural  sequence 
of  Ireland's  heroic  constancy  to  her  ideals  and  to 
her  faith,  from  which  they  spring.  The  center  of 
Irish  life  is  in  the  next  world,  and  to  it  she  ever  looks. 
As  her  poet  De  Vere  sings: 

"  Thy  song  was  pure,  thy  heart  was  high, 
Thy  genius  through  its  strength  was  chaste." 

Therefore  is  it  that  she  resolutely  refuses  to  be 
drawn  to  lower  levels.  A  Lutheran  archbishop  un- 
consciously gives  testimony  to  this  trait  of  Irish  char- 
acter thus: 

"  The  common  people  of  this  isle  are  more  zealous 
in  their  blindness  than  the  saints  and  martyrs  were 
in  the  truth  at  the  beginning  of  the  Gospel." 

He  could  not  in  his  "  blindness  "  see  that  it  was 
the  same  zeal  for  the  same  truth  and  for  the  same 
Gospel. 

The  poorest  not  only  believed  but  understood. 
Their  deep  religious  convictions,  the  strongest  of  all 
feelings,  gave  invincible  strength.  They  were  de- 
prived of  their  leaders,  their  churches,  their  teach- 
ers, their  schools,  their  lands,  their  houses,  their 
language;  and  yet  the  nation  swung  forward  as  one 
man,  bound  together  and  upheld  by  the  golden  chain 
of  religion.  The  light  of  faith  shone  in  water- 
logged cell  and  gloomy  dungeon,  and  filled  them  with 

[ho] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

glory;  it  took  the  pain  from  bleeding  feet  and 
strengthened  weary  hearts;  it  filled  anguished  eyes 
with  the  vision  of  Christ  and  nerved  broken  bodies 
to  creep  up  Calvary. 

It  gave  to  the  nation  a  language  and  literature 
of  remarkable  purity.  The  grossness  that  stains 
other  tongues  and  writings  has  no  place  in  the  chaste 
speech  and  writings  of  the  Gael.  The  Gaelic  lan- 
guage is  Catholic  in  its  very  essence.  Some  years 
ago  a  Protestant  missionary  college,  founded  in  Ire- 
land to  proselytize  the  people,  began  to  teach  the 
Gaelic  language  to  its  students  that  they  might 
evangelize  the  Gaelic  speakers  of  the  nation.  As  a 
result,  so  many  of  the  embryo  ministers  became 
Catholics  that  the  study  of  the  language  was  sum- 
marily stopped. 

Irish  writers,  conscious  of  a  loving  God  looking 
interestedly  down  from  the  battlements  of  Heaven, 
poured  out  their  thoughts  in  phrasings  that  owed 
their  beauty  to  the  prism  of  faith  through  which 
they  passed,  and  made  the  language  a  sanctuary 
wherein  are  enshrined  rare  jewels  of  thoughts. 
Read  for  example  the  glorious  Song  of  Praise  of 
Tara : 

"  At  Tara  to-day  may  the  strength  of  God  pilot  me, 
May  the  power  of  God  preserve  me, 
May  the  eye  of  God  view  me,  may  the  ear  of  God  hear 

me, 
May  the  word  of  God  make  me  eloquent, 
May  the  hand  of  God  protect  me,  may  the  way  of  God 

direct  me, 

[141] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

May  the  shield  of  God  defend  m^ 
Christ  be  with  me,  Christ  before  me, 
Christ  be  after  me,  Christ  be  in  me, 
Christ  be  under  me,  Christ  be  over  me, 
Christ  at  my  right,  Christ  at  my  left, 
Christ  in  the  heart  of  each  I  speak  to, 
Christ  in  the  mouth  of  each  who  speaks  to  me, 
Christ  in  each  eye  which  sees  me, 
Christ  in  each  ear  whiclr  hears  me." 

These  glowing  words  mirror  the  minds  of  a  people 
whose  every  sense  and  every  thought  are  turned  to 
the  fulfillment  of  their  ideal. 

The  effect  of  this  on  the  national  character  can 
scarcely  be  estimated.  Close-linked  with  the 
Author  of  all  virtue,  the  practice  of  heroic  virtue 
became  common  in  the  land.  Parents  in  thousands 
willingly  gave  their  beloved  children  to  the  service 
of  God;  the  rich  poured  out  their  goods  in  the  same 
service,  and  their  love  flowed  out  upon  their  neigh- 
bors. Their  steady  adherence  to  these  ideals  gave 
such  stability  of  thought  and  correctness  of  action 
to  the  nation  that  it  was  saved  from  the  effects  of 
the  wild  theories  that  under  the  name  of  progress 
injured  other  nations. 

And  marvelous  as  the  effects  of  Irish  ideals  have 
been  upon  the  spiritual  life  of  the  people,  they  are 
none  the  less  potent  where  material  things  are  con- 
cerned. Carefully  keeping  the  things  of  earth  in 
proper  perspective,  the  Irish  devoted  themselves  to 
them,  and  became  a  nation  of  famous  leaders  of 
men,  preeminent  in  science,  art,  and  industry. 

[142] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

The  monasteries  sanctified  labor,  and  were  bul- 
warks of  justice  and  morality  and  brotherly  love. 
With  them  the  foundation  of  greatness  was  sanctity. 
Each  had  its  scriptorium  for  writers,  its  halls  where 
science  and  learning  were  taught  and  its  workshops 
for  trades  and  arts.  Each  was  "  a  hive  of  industry, 
a  home  of  learning,  and  an  abode  of  sanctity." 

Industry  changed  the  land  into  a  smiling  paradise, 
for  all  men  were  laborers  with  hand  as  well  as  brain. 

As  artificers,  they  remain  unequalled.  Miss 
Stokes,  speaking  of  the  Ardagh  chalice,  one  of  the 
few  pieces  of  Irish  workmanship  that  have  escaped 
the  destroyers,  says: 

"  The  Ardagh  chalice  shows  complete  mastery 
in  the  arts  of  tempering,  stamping,  engraving,  and 
exquisite  skill  in  design  and  execution." 

Professor  Westwood  of  Oxford  holds  that  at  a 
time  when  the  fine  arts  were  almost  unknown  on 
the  Continent,  from  the  fifth  to  the  end  of  the 
eighth  century,  the  art  of  illumination  had  attained 
a  perfection  in  Ireland  that  was  almost  marvelous, 
and  which  in  after  ages  was  taught  to  the  Continent 
by  Irish  monks. 

And  it  was  on  the  Sacred  Scriptures  that  they 
exercised  their  art  —  thus  becoming  light-bearers 
through  the  darkness  of  Europe,  and  preservers  of 
the  Word  of  God,  perpetuators  of  the  high  ideal  by 
which  they  were  what  they  were. 

The  same  high  authority,  speaking  of  the  Book 
of  Kells,  says: 

[143] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

"  It  must  have  been  penned  by  the  hands  of 
angels:  the  border  of  the  pages  in  Irish  manuscripts 
seems  powdered  with  crushed  jewels.  It  is  the  most 
astonishing  book  of  the  four  Gospels  that  exists  in 
the  world.  How  men  could  have  eyes  and  tools  to 
work  out  such  designs,  I  am  sure  I,  with  all  the  skill 
and  knowledge  in  such  kind  of  work  that  I  have 
been  exercising  for  the  last  fifty  years,  cannot  con- 
ceive." 

A  modern  artist  worked  for  six  months  striving 
to  reproduce  one  letter  of  this  artistic  marvel  from 
the  pen  of  St.  Columba,  and  finally  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt in  despair. 

Their  love  of  learning  was  phenomenal.  In  the 
earliest  ages  great  privileges  were  granted  to  learned 
men.      Professor  Curry  on  this  point  tells  us: 

"  The  highest  generic  name  for  a  learned  man 
was  '  ollamb.'  Each  of  these  was  allowed  a  stand- 
ing income  of  twenty  cows  and  their  grasses,  food 
for  himself  and  twenty-four  attendants,  two  hounds 
and  six  horses.  But  to  reach  that  degree,  he  had 
to  prove  himself  worthy  by  purity  of  learning,  purity 
of  speech,  and  purity  of  action." 

How  well  for  the  world  would  it  be  if  the  same 
credentials  were  demanded  to-day! 

And  this  intense  love  and  appreciation  of  learning 
has  never  been  lost,  but  has  flourished  in  spite  of 
the  most  tremendous  opposition.  The  clouds  of 
war  rolled  across  the  land,  and  ruthless  invaders  de- 
stroyed both  monasteries  and  churches.     When  the 

[144] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

invader  was  routed  and  the  Irish  stood  triumphant 
behind  their  kind,  their  first  care  was  the  restora- 
tion of  the  ruined  shrines  of  knowledge  and  wisdom. 
For  example,  scarce  had  King  Brian  Boru  van- 
quished the  Danes  than  he  took  measures  to  restore 
the  schools  and  monasteries,  and  to  guard  the  peo- 
ple from  falling  into  ignorance.  Of  him  we  read 
in  a  contemporary  writer: 

"  He  sent  professors  to  teach  wisdom  and  knowl- 
edge and  to  buy  books  beyond  the  seas,  because 
their  writings  and  their  books  in  every  church  and 
in  every  sanctuary  where  they  were  plundered  and 
thrown  into  the  sea  by  the  plunderers  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  and  Brian  himself  gave  the 
price  of  learning  and  the  price  of  books  to  every 
one  separately  who  went  on  this  service." 

The  spirit  of  such  leaders  has  ever  lived  in  the 
nation.  It  was  this  that  upheld  the  Irish  in  the 
penal  days  when  it  was  transportation  for  a  teacher 
if  captured;  when  the  house  in  which  Irish  manu- 
scripts were  found  was  burned  to  the  ground  in 
punishment;  when  the  nation  crept  to  the  ditches 
and  gained  knowledge  under  the  leafy  roof  of  the 
hedge  school  sooner  than  touch  the  poisoned  bowl 
of  heresy. 

Ireland  did  not  scale  the  heights  in  solitary  selfish- 
ness. She  went  across  the  earth  "doing  good"; 
but  it  would  lead  us  too  far  to  trace  in  detail  the 
effects  of  Irish  ideals  upon  the  other  nations  of  the 
world.      Let  one  instance  suffice.      Speaking  of  the 

[145] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

influence  of  the  Irish  people  upon  the  American  na- 
tion, the  famous  jurisconsult,  Mr.  Taft,  formerly 
President  of  the  United  States,  says: 

"  There  has  been  an  easy  amalgamation  of  the 
Irish  with  our  American  life.  They  have  added 
much  to  the  composite  American,  made  from  various 
European  stocks.  They  have  softened  the  Ameri- 
can wit.  They  have  added  to  American  tenderness. 
They  have  increased  the  spirit  of  good  fellowship, 
added  to  our  social  graces,  increased  our  poetical 
imagination,  made  us  more  optimistic,  and  added  to 
our  sunny  philosophy.  Socialism  and  anarchy  have 
found  no  lodgment  among  Irishmen.  They  believe 
in  institutions  of  modern  society.  They  believe  in 
upholding  our  national  and  our  State  Governments. 
They  are  not  full  of  diatribes  against  the  existing 
order.  They  struggle  for  equality  of  opportunity, 
and  recognize  the  value  of  liberty  ordered  by  law. 
They  are  not  seeking  to  invent  a  new  society  and 
turn  the  present  one  topsy-turvy.  They  are  co- 
operating with  the  good  fortune,  the  prosperity  and 
the  happiness  that  is  possible  under  our  Govern- 
ment. They  are  grateful  for  all  this,  they  value  it, 
and  they  will  fight  to  preserve  it." 

"  They  are  grateful  for  all  this,  they  value  it, 
and  they  will  fight  to  preserve  it!"  Of  course 
they  will.  They  have  valued  and  fought  for  these 
rights  for  centuries.  They  are  but  the  fructification 
of  their  ideals,  and  they  bravely  sought  this  in 
foreign  lands  when  it  was  denied  them  at  home. 

[i46] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

Those  who  try  to  measure  the  progress  of  this 
people  by  earthly  standards  find  qualities  as  immeas- 
urable as  the  fourth  dimension,  and  actions  that 
nullify  ordinary  human  wisdom,  for  they  square 
only  with  the  infinite. 

Who  will  dare  blame  for  folly  this  act  of  a  young 
Irish  wife?  With  her  husband  and  two  children 
she  had  gone  to  Australia  and  settled  on  the  land. 
They  failed  badly,  owing  to  dry  seasons,  and  found 
themselves  in  Melbourne  with  only  thirty  shillings 
in  the  world.  They  searched  for  employment  in 
vain.  Their  money  went  until  they  had  but  six 
shillings  left.  Taking  this,  the  wife  entered  one  of 
the  city  churches,  and  dropped  it  into  a  box  marked 
"  For  the  Poor,"  at  the  feet  of  a  statue  of  St. 
Anthony.  "  There,  St.  Anthony,"  she  cried,  "  there 
is  all  that  we  have  in  the  world.  Ask  God  to  get 
work  for  us!  "  Permanent  work  came  for  both  al- 
most immediately.  The  worldly  wise  may  doubt 
and  speak  of  coincidence,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  that  Irish  wife  as  she  daily  sends 
warm  prayers  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Giver  of  the 
work. 

But  when  all  is  said,  the  supreme  test  of  life  is 
death.  We  are  given  life  to  learn  how  to  die,  and 
the  manner  of  our  dying  is  the  measure  of  our  suc- 
cess in  living.  He  who  turns  from  the  deathbeds 
of  those  whose  ideals  made  them  poison-drinking, 
vein-opening  suicides,  and  contemplates  the  death- 
beds of  the  Irish,  finds  that  death  with  them  is  but 
the  stepping-stone  to  final  triumph. 

[147] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Come  with  me  to  the  little  cabin  high  on  a  Con- 
nemara  hill-side.  A  message  has  come  in  haste  to 
tell  of  a  man  lying  at  the  point  of  death  within. 

Everything  about  the  cabin  speaks  of  the  deepest 
poverty.  The  green  turf,  unbroken  by  spade  or 
mattock,  runs  close  up  to  the  base  of  the  mold- 
stained  walls;  the  roof-tree  sags  under  a  weight  of 
sodden  thatch,  covered' thickly  with  thick  bosses  of 
green  moss  that  make  the  whole  seem  but  a  swelling 
of  the  turf-covered  mountain-side. 

The  wailing  of  children  and  the  slow  moan  of  a 
woman  sound  from  within.  As  we  bend  under  the 
low  door  to  enter,  we  see  kneeling  on  the  clay  floor 
a  woman  and  five  children.  She  is  broken  with 
grief,  and  her  children  are  clinging  convulsively  to 
her. 

At  the  left,  on  a  low  bed,  is  the  dying  father,  gasp- 
ing out  the  last  moments  of  his  life,  parched  with  a 
fever  that  sprang  from  starvation.  As  soon  as  he 
sees  us,  the  lines  of  pain  fade  from  his  wasted  face, 
and  he  looks  eagerly  and  confidently  up,  watching 
our  every  movement.  Death  is  no  mystery  to  him, 
for  he  has  shaped  his  whole  life  to  be  ready  for  it. 
He  understands  everything  —  the  Visitor  who  rests 
on  the  corporal,  the  silver  phial  of  holy  oil,  the 
stole,  the  lighted  candles.  Quietly  he  makes  his 
confession,  reverently  he  receives  his  God  in  Viati- 
cum, and  communes  in  silent  adoration  with  Him 
whose  Presence  makes  the  lowly  cabin  a  sacred  tab- 
ernacle. Then,  in  quiet  confidence  he  brings  his 
thoughts  back  to   earth.      Slowly  and  painfully  he 

[i48] 


IRISH  IDEALS 

turns  his  wasted  body  until,  lying  on  his  side,  he 
looks  with  eyes  filled  with  love  down  at  the  sobbing 
wife  who  has  been  pouring  her  heart  out  to  Christ 
as  He  rested  on  the  little  table,  pleading  with  Him 
not  to  take  her  husband  and  leave  her  alone. 

"  Catherine,"  in  weak  tones  calls  the  dying  man, 
and  at  the  word  she  kneels  upright,  clasping  her 
hands  to  her  breast  as  if  to  check  the  tide  of  sorrow, 
and  looks  at  him  with  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

"  Catherine,"  the  dying  voice  repeats,  dropping 
the  words  syllable  by  syllable,  slow  at  the  touch  of 
death,    "  don't  —  cry ;    sure  —  haven't  —  we  —  got 

—  the  —  Man  —  above ;       and  —  when  —  I  —  see 

—  Him  —  I'll  —  tell  —  Him  —  about  —  you  — 
and  —  the  —  children." 

He  lay  quietly  back  and  began  to  pray  again,  and 
thus  he  died,  and  went  to  meet  "  the  Man  above," 
as  is  the  beautifully  familiar,  reverent  phrase  of  the 
people. 

That  man  spent  his  life  working  like  a  slave  on 
the  bleak  mountain  wastes,  often  knee-deep  in  water 
all  day.  His  life  was  a  perpetual  fight  with  black 
poverty  —  poverty  that  with  its  semi-starvation 
brought  him  to  an  early  grave.  He  died,  leaving  a 
wife  and  five  children  without  a  morsel  of  food  in 
the  house,  and  yet  with  a  heart  full  of  faith  and 
confidence  he  left  all  to  the  care  of  Christ. 

All  the  adversity  against  which  he  had  struggled 
through  the  slow  years  was  no  more  than  the  passing 
sea  mist  that  clung  for  a  moment  to  the  cliff  be- 
fore his  cabin  and  vanished.      He  measured  all  and 

[H9] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

understood  all  by  his  faith,  and  died  a  veritable  con- 
queror. 

He  measured  his  poverty  against  the  poverty  of 
the  cave  of  Bethlehem,  his  humiliations  against  those 
of  the  Cross-carrier,  his  years  of  life  against  eter- 
nity, and  measuring,  laughingly  followed  his  Leader, 
whom  he  saw  ever  before  him,  calling  him  onward 
and  upward. 

The  seven  gifts  of  the  Holy  Ghost  have  room  to 
operate  in  such  sterling  souls,  and  on  such  souls 
does  Ireland's  greatness  rest. 

The  path  of  their  ideal  is  the  path  of  the  seven 
sacraments,  and  beside  it  flows  the  perennial  foun- 
tain of  living  water.  Faithfully  traversing  this 
path,  the  Irish  people,  conquerors  in  life  and  con- 
querors in  death,  have  lifted  Ireland  triumphant  to 
the  heights  of  Heaven. 


[ISO] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IRISH    JOYOUSNESS 

r^HE  Catholic  Church  is  the  home  of  joyous 
A  laughter.  Her  Founder  came  to  earth  an- 
nouncing "  tidings  of  great  joy,"  a  great  joy  based 
on  hope  and  love  that  has  ever  since  been  one  of  the 
characteristic  notes  of  the  Church.  As  an  Irish 
priest  pleasantly  puts  it:  "  The  true  Church  is  dis- 
tinctly joyous  in  its  sacraments,  doctrines,  and  devo- 
tions, and  in  the  number  of  its  children  who  have 
been  eminent  for  joyousness  in  all  ages." 

Religion  properly  understood  and  practiced  is  a 
spring  of  unending  joyousness,  welling  in  the  heart 
and  independent  of  the  mutable  things  of  time.  St. 
Lawrence  on  his  gridiron,  Sir  Thomas  More  laying 
his  head  on  the  block,  died  joking,  because  of  this 

j°y- 

For  from  this  joy,  incessantly  bubbling  up  in  the 
Catholic  heart  from  the  well  of  faith,  flows  the 
kindly  stream  of  humor  that  mellows  all  things  hu- 
man. Faith  and  humor  go  together.  True  at 
times  we  find  narrow  souls  who  look  askance  at 
humor,  as  if,  forsooth,  if  religiously  weighed,  it 
would  be  found  out  of  harmony  with  piety.  They 
forget  that  the  Sacred  Scriptures  tell  us  that  God 
made  the  dragon  "  that  He  might  laugh  at  him." 
Faith  gives  a  strong  full  tide  of  humor  that  remains 

[151] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

always  with  a  man,  changing  like  the  tides,  but  ever 
present. 

But  humor  that  springs  from  faith  can  be  under- 
stood only  by  him  who  possesses  the  faith.  He  who 
passes  the  measuring  rod  of  eternity  over  human 
things  must  develop  a  broad  kindliness  of  outlook 
that  finds  expression  in  steady  and  thorough  enjoy- 
ment. "  Be  of  good  cheer, "  Christ  commanded  His 
followers,  and  this  enjoyment  is  the  resultant  of  the 
possession  of  the  peace  of  God. 

When  man  is  in  harmony  with'  the  infinite,  all 
things  sing  joyously  to  him  of  their  Creator,  and 
he  holds  the  key  that  unlocks  all  barriers  to  progress 
and  success.  But  the  man  who  lives  only  for 
worldly  pleasures  misses  the  very  purpose  of  life  and 
cannot  know  true  joyousness.  He  searches  for  joy 
where  there  is  no  joy,  in  a  spinning  world  where  "  to 
think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrows  and  leaden-eyed  des- 
pairs "  ;  a  world  where  the  flash  of  teeth  passes  for 
laughter  while  sorrow  bites  at  the  heart;  a  world 
where  there  is  no  finality;  a  world  oppressed  by  the 
consciousness  of  the  presence  of  the  twin  shadows, 
weakness  and  death. 

Nor  is  the  unbeliever  in  better  plight  than  the 
sensual  worldling,  because  for  him  life  is  meaning- 
less. "  I  find,"  said  Huxley,  the  agnostic,  "  my 
dislike  to  the  thought  of  extinction  increasing  as  I 
get  older  and  nearer  the  goal.  It  flashes  across  me 
at  all  sorts  of  times  with  a  sort  of  horror.  I  had 
rather  be  in  hell  a  good  deal."  Herbert  Spencer 
was  tortured  by  similar  misgivings. 

[152] 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

How  different  are  such  lives  from  the  lives  of 
those  who  hear  and  understand  the  message  of  the 
first  Christmas:  "Behold,  I  bring  you  tidings  of 
a  great  joy."  We  see  the  plenitude  of  the  effects 
of  this  message  when  we  study  the  lives  of  those 
who  know  Christ  best  —  His  saints.  The  spirit  of 
the  saints  sings  always,  despite  trial  and  external 
sorrow.  They  caught  the  laughter  of  the  universe 
and  increased  its  chorus.  This  is  beautifully  shown 
in  these  words  of  Father  Boylan,  S.  J. : 

"  Francis  of  Assisi  was  the  great  type  of  mediaeval 
sanctity;  his  heart-easing  laughing  rippled  round  the 
world.  His  deep-seated  gayety,  caught  by  innumer- 
able sons  and  followers,  has  traced  out  a  luminous 
track  through  the  sorrows  of  the  earth. 

"  St.  Teresa,  the  foundress  of  the  Carmelite  re- 
form, was  an  austere  saint,  if  ever  there  was  one, 
and  she  carried  to  old  age  a  light  and  infectious 
joyousness  which  she  has  left  as  a  legacy  to  her 
children.  Throughout  the  world  to-day  in  the  stern 
cloisters  of  Carmel,  one  may  hear  falling  from  the 
lips  of  aged  religious,  tottering  with  wide-open  eyes 
to  the  grave,  a  light-hearted  laughter  which  suggests 
the  exuberance  of  perpetual  youth.  The  saints  are 
always  young.  For  centuries  men  have  dreamed  of 
the  elixir  of  perpetual  youth,  and  at  last  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  is  only  a  pleasant  dream. 
But  it  is  no  dream.  It  is  a  reality,  and  Christ  offers 
it  to  the  world :  '  He  that  drinks  of  the  living  water 
which  I  shall  give  him  shall  not  thirst  forever.'  " 

[153] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

This  fullness  of  joy  is  theirs  because  of  their  deep 
comprehension  of  Christ.  Laughter  rings  through 
every  cloister  in  the  world.  To  such  souls  "  God's 
stripes  are  caresses,"  as  Stevenson  says.  The 
Apostles  rejoiced  in  stripes,  the  martyrs  in  tortures, 
confessors  in  austerities,  the  saints  in  contempt  and 
poverty.  But  in  all  they  were  guarded  by  the 
Church  and  ever  kept  the  middle  path  where  virtue 
dwells,  and  were  preserved  from  the  excess  into 
which  unguided  man  is  so  prone  to  fall.  They  are 
an  antidote  to  a  world  that  ever  oscillates  from  one 
extreme  to  another,  a  world  that  is  either  too  hard 
or  too  soft.  Yesterday,  in  an  excess  of  hardness, 
because  the  Church  in  her  wisdom  called  to  her  aid 
the  spirits  of  art  and  music  and  bound  them  to 
this  service  of  joy,  men  with  narrow  vision,  not 
understanding,  broke  organ  and  choir  and  sculp- 
ture and  pictured  glass,  as  if  they  feared  lest 
man  be  too  happy  and  at  ease  with  God.  To-day, 
such  hardness  of  mind  is  vanishing  and  the  world  is 
falling  into  the  opposite  extreme  —  the  unhealthy 
decadent  softness  of  humanitarianism  with  its  gos- 
pel of  the  avoidance  of  pain  and  sorrow  as  things 
evil. 

The  Church  on  the  contrary  advances  by  the 
healthy  facing  of  pain,  teaches  that  it  is  the  path 
of  joy  and  holds  that  pain  is  a  thing  that  must  be 
and  is  a  means  of  progress.  Suffering  is  trial,  and 
trial  is  to  moral  strength  what  physical  exercise  is 
to  the  muscles  of  the  body. 

Our  faith  transmutes  poverty,  labor,  and  pain  into 

[154]  ' 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

means  to  help  us  on  to  perfection,  and  holds  them 
before  man  as  a  mirror  reflecting  God's  love. 

Ireland  looked  on  this  mirror,  and  love  of  God 
has  ever  been  the  talisman  that  transmuted  all  her 
sorrows  and  kept  the  sunshine  of  God's  laughter 
lighting  her  heart.  Some  there  are  who  have  writ- 
ten of  Ireland  and  shown  her  to  their  readers  as  a 
melancholy  Ireland.  Others  have  shown  her  as  an 
island  of  dreamers,  and  others  again  as  a  volatile 
and  changeable  Ireland.  These  writers  erred  be- 
cause of  their  false  standards.  Coming  from  the 
mad  rush  of  modern  life,  that  mistakes  feverish  un- 
rest for  happiness,  and  which  finds  joy  in  unending 
change  where  solid  thought  is  impossible,  they  mis- 
took the  eternal  steadiness  of  Ireland  for  melan- 
choly. Because  the  Irish  refused  to  burrow  in  the 
sloughs  of  materialism  and  held  to  their  high  ideals 
these  writers  describe  them  as  unpractical  dreamers, 
despite  the  fact  that  their  history  shows  them  to  be 
among  the  most  practical  of  the  nations.  They 
have  dared  to  call  changeable  and  volatile  those 
whose  tenacity  and  determination  have  upheld  them 
while  nations  fell  crashing  in  ruins  about  them.  It 
is  the  old  story  of  "  Wherefore  thou  art  inexcusable, 
oh  man,  because  the  things  wherein  thou  judgest 
thou  dost  thyself." 

A  restless,  melancholy  world,  driven  by  those 
whose  theories  are  often  akin  to  madness,  cannot 
judge  Ireland.  A  world  so  full  of  misery  that  mul- 
titudes commit  suicide  to  escape  from  it  cannot  un- 
derstand the  content  of  Ireland.     A  world  that  is 

[iS5] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

speed-mad  and  covered  with  the  gray  dust  of  its 
whirlings  cannot  appreciate  the  glorious  calm  of 
Ireland.  Ireland  is  a  land  of  the  most  delightful 
calm  and  steadiness.  This  breathes  in  the  very 
landscape.  It  is  visible  everywhere  —  in  the  fields 
and  the  cottages,  on  the  seashore,  by  the  ruins  of 
the  monasteries,  under  the  shadows  of  the  round 
towers,  by  the  soft  flowing  streams,  edged  with 
flowered  green,  that  slip  quietly  by  the  hedges  and 
across  fields  and  beneath  roads  to  swell  the  river 
silently  running  to  the  sea.  She  is  a  land  of  pasture 
and  tillage  and  clear,  clean  air;  a  land  of  little  white 
roads  that  frolic  from  cottage  to  cottage,  that  play 
hide  and  seek  amid  the  hedges,  curve  round  lake  and 
callow,  hide  in  tree  clusters,  lose  themselves  in  deep 
glens,  or  run  wriggling  up  the  curving  sides  of  moun- 
tains and  dive  into  the  unknown. 

This  spirit  of  contentment  and  calm  flows  out  upon 
the  land  from  the  tabernacle,  the  center  of  life  in 
each  village  and  town.  It  rests  by  the  hearth,  it 
sweetens  the  labor  of  the  fields,  and  makes  smooth 
the  path  of  the  traveler. 

The  simple  and  natural  way  in  which  the  Irish  turn 
to  the  tabernacle  is  sometimes  astonishing  to  one  not 
accustomed  to  it.  One  feast  day  I  was  kneeling, 
before  dawn,  in  an  Irish  church.  The  town  outside 
was  silent  in  the  cold  and  darkness  of  winter.  Sud- 
denly, just  as  Mass  was  beginning,  the  sound  of  many 
feet  was  heard,  and  soon,  seat  after  seat  was  filled 
with  a  hooded  and  cloaked  crowd,  who  knelt  and 
reverently  followed  the  Holy  Sacrifice.     They  were 

[156] 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

a  band  of  young  folk  returning  frqm  a  ball,  and  the 
fact  that  they  had  spent  the  night  in  merry-making 
did  not  cause  them  to  forget  their  duty  to  God. 
Before  going  home  all  came  to  the  church  to  the 
Mass  of  the  feast. 

"Incongruous,"  you  murmur.  No!  not  in  Ire- 
land. Irish  amusements  are  wholesome  and  Irish 
dances  are  clean  and  modest,  healthy  and  hearty,  so 
different  from  the  sensuous  slidings  of  some  nations. 
God  is  with  them  in  their  pleasure  as  in  their  sor- 
rows, in  their  assemblies  as  in  their  loneliness. 
They  take  their  amusements  conscious  of  the  pres- 
ence of  God.  Even  when  holiday-making  Ireland 
does  not  forget,  but  carries  the  same  spirit  with  her. 

High  on  the  central  plateau  of  Northern  Clare 
is  the  holiday  resort,  Lisdoonvarna.  It  exists  only 
for  pleasure-seekers,  and  during  the  season  its  streets 
are  thronged.  The  excursions  by  day  and  dance  and 
song  each  evening,  that  make  the  hours  fly,  are  not 
peculiar  to  Ireland.  They  are  to  be  found  in  other 
lands,  but  what  is  peculiar  to  Ireland  is  the  sanctifi- 
cation  of  this  joyousness  that  is  to  be  seen  each  morn- 
ing, and  is  characteristically  Irish. 

In  Lisdoonvarna,  as  everywhere  else  in  Ireland, 
the  church  stands  in  the  center.  Each  morning  the 
first  Mass  begins  at  five  o'clock,  and  after  that 
Masses  are  celebrated  every  half-hour  until  ten 
o'clock.  The  church  is  full  to  overflowing  at  each 
of  the  Masses  and  great  numbers  go  to  Communion. 
At  the  early  Masses  are  to  be  seen  the  ardent  fisher- 
men and  sportsmen  with  their  rods  and  guns,  hear- 

[157] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

ing  Mass  before  setting  out  on  a  long  day's  tramp 
over  moor  and  mountain. 

"  Himself  "  and  "  Herself  "  come  gravely  down 
to  the  later  Masses  clad  in  the  dignity  that  befits 
their  maturer  years.  They  look  with  amused  toler- 
ance at  the  vivacious  energy  that  searches  far  afield 
for  trout  and  pollock,  rabbit  and  grouse.  The  joy 
that  springs  from  a  light  conscience  goes  eddying 
from  end  to  end  of  the  plateau. 

At  Lisdoonvarna,  the  stream  of  joyousness  ripples 
openly  in  the  sunshine,  but  it  is  to  be  found  also 
flowing  quietly  and  strongly  beneath  the  dark  clouds 
of  adversity  in  places  where  it  is  so  hidden  beneath 
exterior  privation  that  it  can  only  be  seen  by  eyes 
of  faith,  for  its  presence  in  such  places  is  a  marvel  of 
faith. 

If  we  step  off  the  plateau  by  the  bluff  shoulder  of 
Moher  and  follow  the  roads  that  run  south  and  east 
through  the  land  we  shall  catch  glimpses  of  it  flash- 
ing from  stony  fields,  where  it  drives  back  despair, 
and  from  solitary  cabins  by  the  roadside,  where  it 
banishes  loneliness  from  souls  tied  by  poverty. 

To  the  truth  of  this  let  a  good  old  soul  whom  I 
found  in  a  wayside  cabin  in  Clare  bear  witness. 

Her  husband  had  been  dead  for  many  years  and 
all  her  children,  yet  the  spirit  of  contentment  rested 
upon  her  brow  as  she  looked  out  upon  the  world 
from  her  half-door.  I  stood  and  spoke  with  her 
and  learned  her  history. 

u  So  you  are  quite  alone  in  the  world?"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered  at  once,  and  quite  de- 

[158] 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

cidedly,  "  oh,  no,  I've  God  and  His  Blessed  Mother 
with  me." 

The  beads  of  the  Blessed  Mother  lay  on  the  cor- 
ner of  a  little  table  just  inside  the  door,  and  beyond 
on  the  white  wall  a  picture  showed  that  St.  Joseph 
was  not  forgotten. 

She  was  twin  soul  to  the  other  Irish  mother, 
whom  I  met  on  a  Limerick  hill-side  in  similar  plight. 
Frail  and  old,  she  was  toiling  painfully  up  a  steep 
hill  carrying  a  bucket  of  water  from  a  well  at  the 
foot.  I  took  the  bucket  from  her,  and  as  we  walked 
up  the  hill  she  told  me  a  sad  story  of  emigration  and 
death,  yet  one  gilded  by  marvelous  contentment  and 
resignation.      She  saw  God's  hand  in  all. 

As  we  drew  near  a  cottage  by  the  road-side  I 
asked  who  lived  there. 

"  God  and  myself,"  was  her  answer. 

;'  What  need  of  loneliness  when  I've  Him  to  talk 
to?  "  was  her  answer  to  another  question. 

Such  souls  are  apt  pupils  in  the  school  of  Christ, 
and  earth  can  teach  them  nothing. 

Irish  joyousness  finds  full  power  of  expression  in 
the  language  of  these  people.  The  tongue  of  the 
Gael  is  the  shrine  of  national  memories,  and  irrep- 
arable loss  has  been  inflicted  upon  generations  of 
Irish  because  they  were  deprived  of  it. 

Ireland  possessed  a  splendid  literature,  and,  de- 
spite the  ravages  of  invaders,  many  traces  of  it  re- 
main. He  who  would  study  the  history  of  the 
Celtic  nations  of  Europe  must  go  to  Irish  manu- 
scripts.    As  Darmesteter  says: 

[159] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

"  Ireland  has  the  peculiar  privilege  of  a  history 
continuous  from  the  earliest  centuries  of  our  era  to 
the  present  day.  She  has  preserved  in  the  infinite 
wealth  of  her  literature  a  complete  and  faithful  pic- 
ture of  the  ancient  civilization  of  the  Celts.  Irish 
literature  is  therefore  the  key  that  opens  the  Celtic 
world." 

National  language  is  the  natural  vehicle  for  the 
expression  of  the  thought  and  the  ideals  of  a  people, 
and  no  substitute  can  be  found  for  it.  To  speak  in 
a  foreign  tongue  brings  many  disadvantages,  not  the 
least  of  which  is  the  sense  of  inferiority  felt  by  him 
who  is  conscious  of  defects  in  pronunciation  and 
idiom. 

This  was  the  reason  of  the  answer  of  the  Galway 
man  to  the  English  member  of  Parliament  who 
vainly  endeavored  to  make  him  speak  English. 

"  Ah,  if  we  talked  English,"  said  he,  "  you  would 
be  a  wiser  man  than  I;  in  Irish  it  is  not  that  way 
the  story  is!  " 

And  as  the  thought  and  ideals  of  Ireland  have 
ever  been  deeply  religious,  the  suppression  of  the 
language  embodying  these  struck  a  blow,  not  only 
at  national  sentiment,  but  at  national  religion. 

Who  so  swift  and  clean  of  speech  as  the  Irish? 

The  so-called  "  Irish  bull  "  is  the  outcome  of  the 
quick  flash  of  mind  that  expresses  one  idea  by  ap- 
posite and  opposite  illustrations. 

In  the  year  1834,  in  spite  of  fierce  legislation 
against  it,  there  were  3,000,000  people  who  used  the 

[160] 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

Irish  language  as  their  mother  tongue.  But  famine 
and  pestilence,  emigration  and  the  penal  laws 
worked  against  and  the  English  tongue  took  its  place 
save  where  it  languished  in  the  south  and  west. 

Priceless  manuscripts  in  great  numbers  were  de- 
stroyed, and  a  generation  arose  in  ignorance  and 
knew  not  what  they  had  lost,  till  in  the  year  1893 
by  the  Gaelic  revival  lovers  of  Ireland  began  to  fan 
the  spark  almost  buried  under  cold  ashes.  Already 
a  bright  flame  is  burning,  prophetic  of  the  day  that 
is  coming  when  the  joyously  Catholic  speech  of  the 
Gael  shall  hold  its  rightful  position. 

Side  by  side  with  the  Irish  language  runs  the 
stream  of  Irish  music  and  song.  Song  sprang  nat- 
urally to  the  lips  of  the  Irish,  and  the  odes  of  the 
bards  were  memorized  by  the  people  and  sung  by 
them  at  their  gatherings. 

"  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,"  says  Douglas 
Hyde,  "  that  by  no  people  was  poetry  so  cultivated 
and  so  remunerated  as  in  Ireland.  There  were  six- 
teen grades  of  bards,  and  each  grade  had  its  own 
peculiar  metre,  of  which  the  Irish  had  over  three 
hundred." 

Life  without  music  and  song  would  be  impossible 
for  such  a  people,  and  they  brought  both  to  a  pitch 
of  perfection  rarely  attained  in  any  nation.  Ireland 
is  the  only  country  that  has  a  musical  instrument  as 
the  national  emblem. 

Of  the  music  of  Ireland,  Dr.  Ernest  Walker  says: 

"  Few  musicians  have  been  found  to  question  the 

[161] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

assertion  that  Irish  folk  music  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
finest  that  exists.  It  ranges,  with  wonderful  ease, 
over  the  whole  gamut  of  human  emotion,  from  the 
cradle  to  the  battlefield,  and  is  unsurpassed  in 
poetical  and  artistic  charm.  If  musical  composition 
meant  nothing  more  than  tunes  sixteen  bars  long, 
Ireland  could  claim  some  of  the  very  greatest  com- 
posers that  ever  livedo  for  in  their  miniature  form, 
the  best  Irish  folk  tunes  are  gems  of  absolutely  flaw- 
less luster.  For  sheer  beauty  of  melody,  the  works 
of  Mozart,  Schubert,  and  the  Irish  composers  form 
a  triad  that  is  unchallenged  in  the  whole  range  of 
the  art." 

And  Cambrensis,  speaking  of  their  skill  with  musi- 
cal instruments,  says: 

"  The  attention  of  these  people  to  musical  instru- 
ments is  worthy  of  praise,  in  which  their  skill  is  be- 
yond comparison  superior  to  other  people.  The 
modulation  is  not  slow  and  solemn,  but  rapid  and 
precipitate;  it  is  extraordinary  in  such  rapidity  of 
the  fingers  how  the  musical  proportions  are  pre- 
served." 

Her  joyousness  swept  across  Ireland  in  an  un- 
rivalled outburst  of  music  and  song.  The  whole  na-. 
tion,  like  a  gigantic  harp,  thrilled  with  the  praise 
of  God  as  the  Irish  exultantly  lifted  up  their  hearts 
to  Him  "  in  hymns  and  canticles  singing  and  making 
melody  in  their  hearts  to  the  Lord." 

So  it  ever  is  with  man  when  his  heart  is  at  rest 
and   his   mind   steadied   by   definite   purpose.     Joy 

[162] 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

sings  in  the  heart  of  the  goldseeker,  even  though 
his  path  crawls  across  the  Chilcoot  Pass  and  races 
at  lightning  speed  over  the  creamy  rush  of  White 
Horse  Canon,  with  death  at  every  oar  tip.  The 
lure  of  the  gold  and  the  power  of  its  possession 
urges  him  onward;  buoyed  by  the  thought  of  riches 
ahead  he  struggles  forward  though  death  watch 
every  step. 

The  world  looks  on  in  admiration  when  it  sees 
him  laboriously  burning  the  frozen  earth  and  brav- 
ing climatic  conditions  that  render  life  almost  im- 
possible, and  judges  that  the  prize  is  worth  the  risk, 
because  it  is  the  price  that  he  is  content  to  pay  for 
a  lifetime  to  be  spent  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that 
this  world  gives  to  the  possessor  of  riches. 

So  too  is  it  with  the  Irish.  Not  for  earthly  gold, 
but  for  heavenly  gold  this  people  presses  on,  break- 
ing all  difficulties  beneath  their  feet,  with  hearts  and 
eyes  fast  fixed  on  the  prize  ahead. 

They  travel  through  life  with  the  Beatitudes  set 
as  signposts  and  they  confidently  steer  their  course 
by  them.  Thus  it  is  that  the  meaning  of  poverty 
and  tribulation  and  pain  —  in  short,  the  meaning  of 
life,  a  mystery  to  worldlings  —  is  quite  clear  to 
them.  With  them  "  Delight  has  taken  Pain  to  her 
heart,"  and  they  understand  fully  that  the  sacred 
office  of  pain  is  to  purify  the  gold  of  the  heart  from 
the  dross  of  earth. 

Speaking  of  the  outlook  of  the  Irish  people  upon 
life,  an  English  Protestant  writer,  Harold  Begbie, 
says : 

[i63] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  these  hard-working, 
simple-living,  family-loving,  and  most  warm-hearted 
people  had  done  what  we  in  England  have  largely 
failed  to  do  even  in  our  villages,  to  wit,  solved  the 
problem  of  life.  The  charm  which  every  traveler 
feels  in  the  South  of  Ireland  is  the  character  of  the 
Irish  people,  and  my  investigations  forced  me  to  the 
judgment  that  this  character  is  the  culture  of  Irish 
Catholicism." 

Ireland  is  a  proof,  that  the  whole  world  may  see, 
of  the  joy  of  life  and  sanity  of  outlook  that  spring 
from  the  Catholic  Church,  the  Church  of  the  taber- 
nacle. 

The  sacramental  Presence  of  God  sets  the  whole 
nation  moving  joyously  around  Him,  and  persecu- 
tion and  trial  but  strengthen  this  content,  because 
suffered  for  Him  who  assures  them  that  blessed  are 
the  poor,  the  oppressed,  and  the  persecuted. 

The  tabernacle  of  the  divine  Presence  gives  Ire- 
land immovable  strength  and  confidence;  from  it 
also  she  has  been  nourished  by  the  life  of  nations. 
Ireland,  intensely  loyal,  rejoices  in  all  times  and 
circumstances  in  the  Presence  of  her  King, — "  of 
Thee  shall  I  continually  sing,  and  I  am  become  unto 
many  as  a  wonder,  but  Thou  art  a  strong  helper,  my 
lips  shall  greatly  rejoice  when  I  shall  sing  to  Thee." 

They  look  upon  all  earthly  ills  as  coin  for  gaining 
sanctity.  They  have  read  aright  the  law  of  suffer- 
ing and  know  that  it  is  part  of  the  law  of  life;  that 
the  crown  of  thorns  was  the  halo  that  Christ  wore 

[i64] 


IRISH  JOYOUSNESS 

on  earth  and  showed  to  the  world  when  dying  cruci- 
fied. Ireland  realizes  what  A  Kempis  teaches,  "  the 
cross  is  strength  and  joy  of  spirit  and  the  price  of  a 
kingdom." 

The  Catholic  Faith  is  the  fountain  of  Irish  joyous- 
ness,  a  fountain  whence  gushes  the  living  water  of 
life  in  a  stream  so  strong  that  it  bursts  through  the 
misery  of  life  and  transmutes  it  till  it  gleams  as  a 
heavenly  gift  in  a  spray  of  golden  rain. 


[165] 


CHAPTER  XV 

TRIUMPH    OF    IRELAND 

TTISTORIANS  have  often  painted  glowing  pic- 
-■■ -^  tures  of  periods  that  were  considered  to  be 
times  of  triumph  in  the  lives  of  nations.  Yet  too 
often  when  tried  by  the  testing  fingers  of  time  the 
triumph  proved  to  be  but  a  simulacrum. 

The  passage  of  the  centuries  places  all  in  proper 
perspective,  and  shows  that  national  success  is  not  to 
be  measured  by  commercial  greatness,  or  extent  of 
territory,  or  the  subjugation  of  peoples.  These  may 
exist  and  dazzle  the  vision  of  those  whose  horizon 
is  narrowed  within  the  confines  of  one  generation, 
while  the  soul  of  the  nation  is  sinking  to  death.  A 
nation,  no  less  than  an  individual,  cannot  find  true 
greatness  in  material  acquisitions,  but  must  attain  it 
by  rectitude  of  thought  and  act. 

Earth  is  full  of  the  mystery  of  nations  who  at- 
tained worldly  greatness,  yet  have  vanished  and  left 
not  even  a  name  behind  them.  This  mystery  meets 
the  traveler  in  the  buried  cities  of  the  forests  of 
Yucatan  with  their  tree-pierced  marble  floors;  it 
astounds  him  among  African  savages  and  on  Asian 
hill-sides. 

And  the  recorded  history  of  nations  proves  again 
and  again  that  the  nation  who  barters  her  soul  for 
conquest  and  power  is  a  nation  doomed. 

[t66] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

As  we  turn  the  pages  of  the  early  history  of  man- 
kind, and  ponder  wonderingly  on  the  unerring  sure- 
ness  that  with  the  certainty  almost  of  a  natural  law 
ends  the  career  of  the  nation  that  offends,  we  see 
one  remarkable  instance  of  real  triumph  achieved 
through  devotion  to  high  ideals.  From  the  dawn 
of  creation  across  the  generations  we  can  trace  the 
splendid  record  of  the  Jewish  nation,  the  Chosen 
People  of  God,  who,  despite  weakness  and  exile  and 
oppression,  conquered  all  while  they  remained  faith- 
ful. 

Egypt  with  her  subtle,  seductive  civilization  strove 
strenuously  to  crush  them.  She  sank  and  died,  leav- 
ing naught  behind  but  a  few  stones,  half  hidden  in 
the  drifting  desert  sands,  and  the  Chosen  People 
lived  on. 

Assyria,  brutal  in  her  might  and  arrogance,  and 
drunk  with  the  lust  of  power,  marched  forward  in 
the  path  of  passion,  and  sprang  to  annihilate  them. 
The  setting  sun  glittered  on  silver  spear,  and 
shone  on  golden  helmet;  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
thunder  of  marching  squadrons  and  the  trampling 
of  the  war-horse.  The  rising  sun  looked  down 
on  a  silent  plain  and  a  silent  army.  Spear  and 
helmet,  horse  and  rider,  lay  low  in  the  dust.  God 
had  intervened  to  protect  His  Chosen  People,  and 
that  mighty  host  was  stricken  back  to  its  elemental 
clay. 

Babylon,  proud  and  degraded,  stretched  forth  im- 
pious hands  to  slay  them.  The  earth  was  filled  with 
the  noise  of  her  armies;  but  God  told  the  faithful 

[167] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

Jews  to  fear  not,  "  for  the  owl  shall  hoot  in  their 
houses  and  wild  beasts  shall  rest  there. " 

The  greatest  civilization  and  power  of  them  all, 
resplendent  Greece,  arose  —  Greece,  of  whom  the 
Sacred  Scriptures  said,  "  She  slew  the  kings  of  the 
earth,  she  went  through  even  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  and  took  the  spoils  of  many  nations,  and  the 
earth  was  silent  before  the  Macedonian  soldier." 
This  earth-conquering  nation  marched  with  her 
hitherto  invincible  hosts  against  the  Jews,  who,  with 
the  valiant  Judas  Maccabaeus  at  their  head,  stood, 
a  tiny  handful,  awaiting  the  onslaught.  '  There  is 
no  difference  in  the  sight  of  God,"  fearlessly  cried 
the  Jewish  leader,  "  to  deliver  with  a  great  multitude 
or  with  a  small  company,  for  the  success  of  war  is 
not  in  the  multitude  of  the  army,  but  strength  cometh 
from  Heaven;  the  Lord  Himself  will  overthrow 
them."  And  even  so  did  it  happen.  As  a  great 
tidal  wave  that,  sweeping  with  resistless  rush  over 
leagues  of  ocean,  crashes  like  a  green  mountain 
against  an  iron  coast,  and  is  flung  back  baffled  and 
broken  in  seething  confusion,  so  that  great  earthly 
force  fell  back,  defeated  and  dismayed,  before  the 
invulnerable  power  that  guarded  the  Chosen  Peo- 
ple. 

They  stood  unmoved  by  all  assaults,  relying  on  the 
word  of  their  prophet,  who,  speaking  of  the  seem- 
ingly overwhelming  attack  of  the  Assyrians,  had  as- 
sured them  — "  Fear  not,  for  with  him  is  an  arm 
of  flesh;  with  us  the  Lord  our  God  fighteth  for  us." 

[168] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

Ages  after  the  passing  of  the  kingdom  of  the 
Jews,  the  same  spirit  animated  the  Irish  king,  Brian 
Boru,  who,  when  told  of  the  threats  of  the  powerful 
Danish  invader,  asked  "  Hath  the  king  in  his  vain 
boasting  said  '  if  it  please  God'?  No?  Then  we 
need  not  fear  him." 

This  is  the  spirit  that  is  the  secret  of  true  great- 
ness and  of  national  success  —  a  spirit  that  keeps  a 
nation  in  accord  with  the  laws  of  the  Creator,  and 
sends  it  forward  to  true  triumph,  the  fulfillment  of 
its  destiny. 

The  Jews,  vivified  by  this,  moved  forward  across 
the  ages,  while  their  enemies  fell  by  the  wayside, 
lost  in  the  darkness  of  materialism.  But  the  Jews, 
alas!  missed  the  fullness  of  the  triumph  that  was  to 
have  been  theirs,  because  they  fell  from  the  splendid 
path  that  they  trod  while  true  to  their  destiny. 

They  were  strong  in  the  revelation  of  the  coming 
of  the  Redeemer;  but  as  the  ages  rolled  by  without 
the  fulfillment  of  the  promise,  the  mists  of  earth 
blinded  them,  and  when  at  last  the  Savior  came 
and  stood  among  them,  they  did  not  know  Him. 
They  had  so  fallen,  that  in  their  blindness  they  came 
to  measure  things  by  earthly  standards,  and  looked 
for  a  powerful  leader  who  in  his  might  would  make 
them  conquerors  of  all.  They  could  not  realize  that 
Christ  was  mighty  in  His  poverty,  powerful  in  His 
meekness,  conqueror  in  His  cross. 

That  revelation  came  to  Ireland,  and  she  fell  into 
no  such  error.     She  recognized  the  Savior  of  men 

[i69] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

when  He  came  to  her,  and  has  ever  since  been  faith- 
ful to  Him.  Therefore  is  it  that  her  history  is  one 
of  ever-increasing  triumph. 

The  Spirit  of  Pentecost  runs  full  in  her  veins,  and 
to  this  spirit  is  to  be  traced  Ireland's  triumph.  Be- 
cause of  this,  though  old  in  sorrow  and  experience, 
she  is  young  in  vigor  of  life  and  supernal  hope. 
Her  triumph  is  founded  on  her  fidelity  to  Catholic 
ideals,  and  her  history  shows  generation  after  gen- 
eration fighting  valiantly  to  uphold  these. 

Many  count  it  among  her  glories  that  her  sons  are 
a  strong  power  in  all  lands;  that  they  are  high  in 
the  council-chambers  of  the  nations;  that  they  are 
princes  of  commerce  and  industry;  that  they  are  pre- 
eminent on  the  battlefield.  And  they  are  right  in 
doing  so,  for  the  splendid  history  of  her  sons  among 
the  nations  is  one  of  Ireland's  glories.  Marshals  in 
France,  Ministers  in  Spain,  Ambassadors  in  every 
court  of  Europe  —  they  have  in  great  measure  writ- 
ten the  history  of  the  Old  World. 

In  the  forming  of  the  New  World  they  are  even 
more  prominent.  Nearly  half  of  the  Presidents  of 
the  United  States  were  of  Celtic  blood,  and  the  Irish 
were  the  foremost  in  the  American  struggle  for 
liberty.  Custis,  the  adopted  son  of  Washington, 
writes: 

"  The  aid  we  received  from  Irish  Catholics  in 
the  struggle  for  independence  was  essential  to  our 
ultimate  success.  In  the  War  of  Independence  Ire- 
land  furnished  one   hundred  men   for   every  single 

[170] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

man    furnished    by    any    other    foreign    nation;    let 
America  bear  eternal  gratitude  to  Irishmen." 

President  Roosevelt  speaks  of  their  influence  in 
America  thus : 

t{  In  every  walk  of  life  men  of  Irish  blood  have 
stood  and  now  stand  preeminent  as  statesmen  and 
soldiers,  on  the  bench,  at  the  bar,  and  in  business. 
They  are  doing  their  full  share  toward  the  artistic 
and  literary  development  of  the  country." 

Ireland  is  proud  of  the  part  her  sons  have  taken 
in  building  up  the  greatest  democracy  on  earth,  but 
she  is  prouder  still  of  the  fact  that  all  this  earthly 
success  was  solidified  by  the  spirit  of  faith. 
Worldly  success  did  not  turn  them  from  God.  El- 
oquent testimony  of  this  is  given  by  the  great  Amer- 
ican, Dr.  O.  A.  Brownson,  in  the  following  words: 

"  Here  the  Irish  and  their  descendants  are  by  all 
odds  and  under  every  point  of  view  the  purest,  the 
best,  and  the  most  trustworthy  of  the  American  peo- 
ple." 

To  be  proud  of  their  worldly  success  and  to  meas- 
ure their  progress  by  it  would  be  to  repeat  the  error 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  brings  death  to  nations. 
Rome  counted  this  as  a  sign  of  greatness,  and  she 
fell,  till  her  people  were  human  wolves  ravenous  for 
slaughter.      So  low  did  she   fall,   that  her  idea  of 

[i7i] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

the  greatest  national  triumph  possible  was  a  long 
line  of  captives  led  through  the  streets,  tied  for 
butchery,  while  captive  kings  walked  before  the 
chariot  of  the  victor,  and  were  dropped  to  strangula- 
tion or  starvation  under  the  grating  of  the  Mamer- 
tine  pit,  while  the  people  revelled  in  the  blood-reek 
of  the  amphitheater. 

Therefore,  we  do  not  point  to  the  worldly  success 
of  her  sons  as  a  mark  of  Ireland's  triumph,  for  to  do 
so  would  be  to  follow  the  error  of  ancient  Rome  and 
others  who  based  a  nation's  greatness  upon  things 
that  scarce  touch  at  all  the  real  life  of  a  people. 
All  the  power  and  wealth  and  fame  acquired  by 
her  sons  would  be  but  failure  if  accompanied  by 
loss  of  Catholic  faith,  for  it  would  mean  the  deser- 
tion of  the  service  of  God  for  that  of  Mammon.  It 
is  precisely  because  Ireland  recognizes  this  that  she 
possesses  her  undying  vitality.  She  has  ever 
guarded  her  faith  and  made  it  her  first  care  to  pro- 
vide for  the  fitting  worship  of  God. 

The  triumph  of  the  Irish  lies  in  the  fact  that, 
while  making  such  worldly  progress,  while  display- 
ing such  rare  patriotic  energy,  they  have  vivified  all 
by  their  faith,  and  measured  all  success  by  the  light 
of  faith.  Maguire  in  "  Irish  in  America  "  shows 
this  very  clearly: 

"  What  Ireland  has  done  for  the  American 
Church  every  bishop  and  every  priest  can  tell. 
Throughout  the  vast  extent  of  the  Union,  there  is 
scarcely  a  church,  a  college,  an  academy,  a  school,  a 

[172] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

religious  or  charitable  institution,  an  asyl^n,  a  hos- 
pital, or  a  refuge,  in  which  the  piety,  the  learning, 
the  zeal,  the  self-sacrifice  of  the  Irish,  of  the  priest 
or  the  professor,  of  the  Sisters  of  every  Order  and 
Congregation,  are  not  to  be  traced:  there  is  scarcely 
an  ecclesiastical  seminary  for  English-speaking  stu- 
dents in  which  the  great  majority  of  those  now  pre- 
paring for  the  service  of  the  sanctuary  do  not  belong, 
if  not  by  birth,  at  least  by  blood,  to  that  historic 
land  to  which  the  grateful  Church  of  past  ages  ac- 
corded the  proud  title  — '  Insula  Sanctorum.'  " 

Forty  years  ago  an  American  writer  could  say: 

"  This  vast  continent  affords  a  most  striking  proof 
of  what  religion  means  to  the  Irish  people.  Count 
the  colleges,  schools,  academies,  hospitals,  and 
asylums  of  charity  that  have  sprung  up  as  if  by  magic 
all  over  the  land,  and  tell  me  is  there  anything  that 
speaks  more  eloquently  to  the  heart  than  the  faith 
that  inspired  such  unselfish  devotion.  Religion  as  a 
name  is  useless;  it  is  only  precious  for  what  it  enables 
us  to  be  and  to  do.  It  is  religion  that  has  made  the 
Irish  people  what  they  are.  It  has  made  them  just 
towards  others,  lovers  of  order  and  progress,  firm  in 
the  support  of  just  authority,  and  courageous  in  re- 
sistance to  lawless  tyranny.  No  State  can  thrive 
without  such  virtuous  citizens,  and  no  country  can  be 
hopelessly  lost  that  has  the  happiness  of  possessing 
them." 

And  what   Ireland  has  done  in  America  she  is 
[i73] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

doing  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  It  would  seem 
that  her  destiny  is  to  diffuse  the  Catholic  Faith 
through  the  whole  of  the  English-speaking  nations. 
The  Gael  is  the  salt  that  gives  savor  to  the  English 
world.  Wherever  her  sons  go  they  build  churches 
and  convents  and  orphanages  and  schools,  in  the  face 
of  a  corrupt  world,  and  support  them  by  severe  self- 
sacrifice. 

To-day  their  influence  is  so  great  that  the  words 
of  Tertullian,  spoken  to  the  Romans  of  the  Catholics 
in  the  third  century,  apply  with  equal  force  to  Irish 
Catholics : 

"  The  liberty  which  we  have  secured  to  worship 
in  freedom  is  but  of  yesterday,  and  already  we  fill 
your  towns,  your  councils,  your  armies,  and  your 
parliaments.  You  have  persecuted  us  for  centuries, 
and  behold,  we  spring  up  from  the  blood  of  our 
martyrs  in  numbers  increased  a  hundredfold." 

The  Catholic  Faith,  as  potent  in  the  twentieth 
as  in  the  third  century,  is  the  secret  of  Ireland's 
triumph,  and  it  will  be  the  secret  of  her  final  glory. 
This  has  not  made  her  less  loyal  to  worldly  author- 
ity, but  on  the  contrary  has  made  her  loyal  with  a 
selfless  loyalty  so  rare  that  it  can  be  understood  only 
by  those  who  know  the  Catholic  heart  of  Ireland. 
Whenever  danger  threatened  the  Empire,  her  sons 
sprang  forward  to  repel  it.  To-day  300,000  stand 
in  the  fighting  line,  and  beside  them  is  a  mighty 
host   of  nearly  a  million  men  of  Irish  blood.      In 

[174] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

every  land  her  sons  are  prominent  as  nation-builders, 
and  this  is  but  a  necessary  resultant  of  their  ideals. 
Those  who  work  well  for  God  always  work  well  for 
man. 

And  as  in  the  case  of  the  Catholics  of  the  cata- 
combs, of  whom  Tertullian  says  that  they  sprang 
to  strength  from  the  blood  of  the  martyrs,  so  too 
Ireland  sprang  to  strength  and  triumph  from  the 
blood  of  her  martyrs.  Ireland's  blood  has  been 
sprinkled  in  benediction  upon  a  dying  world,  and 
it  has  fructified  a  thousandfold. 

God  in  His  mysterious  wisdom  permitted  the  na- 
tion to  be  flung  bleeding  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth.  In  a  pitiful  stream  the  exiles  crossed  the 
waterways  of  the  world,  seeking  that  which  was 
denied  them  at  home.  With  them  they  brought 
their  priest  and  their  God.  As  the  banished  Israel- 
ites, wandering  in  sorrow  away  from  the  Holy 
Land,  clung  to  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  as  the 
center  of  their  life,  so  did  the  banished  Irish,  wan- 
dering in  sorrow  from  their  holy  land,  cling  firmly  to 
that  which  was  greater  than  the  Ark  of  the  Cov- 
enant—  the  tabernacle,  wherein  God  is  enthroned. 
And  fortified  by  the  strength  of  nations,  the  exiles 
planted,  the  Cross  of  Christ  in  Arctic  ice  and  tropic 
sun,  on  the  rolling  prairies  and  pampas  of  America, 
amid  the  sands  of  Africa,  by  the  mountains  of  Asia, 
and  on  the  long,  low  plains  of  Australia. 

The  dispersion  of  the  Irish  is  one  of  the  wonders 
of  the  world.  We  do  not  recall  it  to  arouse  bitter- 
ness —  God  forbid !     No,  we  look  back  to  it  as  one 

[175] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

of  the  glories  of  our  Church,  just  as  we  look  back 
to  the  martyrs  of  the  Roman  arena,  martyrs  who 
saved  their  country  and  their  oppressors  by  their 
fidelity  to  our  Catholic  Faith.  The  marvelous  re- 
sults of  this  dispersion  form  one  of  the  brightest 
pages  in  the  history  of  Ireland,  and  one  of  the  grand- 
est monuments  to  the  undying  vitality  and  eternal 
strength  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

The  effects  of  this '  dispersion  on  the  history  of 
the  world  and  the  history  of  the  Church  are  beyond 
computation.  They  are  world-wide  in  extent  and 
supernatural  in  power.  Truly  it  is  a  case  of  God 
using  the  weak  ones  of  the  earth  to  confound  the 
strong.  We  see  a  stream  of  broken-hearted,  pov- 
erty-stricken exiles  fleeing  from  their  country,  as 
helpless  from  a  worldly  standpoint  as  Christ's  first 
apostles.  Yet  look  at  the  result.  Strong  with  the 
strength  of  God,  these  poor  stricken  ones  have  built 
numberless  homes  for  their  Creator  —  wayside 
churches,  mighty  cathedrals,  seminaries,  convents, 
orphanages,  and  schools  —  all  centers  whence  ra- 
diate the  life  of  the  grace  of  God,  vivifying  and  up- 
lifting every  land. 

The  extent  of  this  mighty  force  is  most  manifest 
when  the  Irish  world  turns  in  an  outburst  of  love 
to  celebrate  the  feast  day  of  St.  Patrick.  Let  us 
watch  their  whole-hearted  devotion  to  him  as  like  a 
great  wave  it  goes  sweeping  around  the  earth. 

In  Ireland  itself  at  the  dawn  of  day  the  whole 
land  is  astir,  vibrating  with  the  light  of  faith.  In 
the  city  streets,  along  the  boreens  and  roads,  down 

[i76] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

the  glens  by  plain  and  mountain,  all  are  hastening 
to  kneel  round  the  altar  of  their  God.  Across  the 
broad  bosom  of  the  heather-covered  bogland  they 
make  their  way  to  the  little  white  chapel  on  the  hill- 
side. Country  church  and  city  cathedral  alike  are 
crowded,  and  the  whole  land  echoes  to  the  prayer 
of  millions  —  a  mighty  chorus  of  love  sounding  be- 
fore God's  earthly  throne. 

Follow  the  sun  around  the  globe,  and  watch 
Greater  Ireland  beyond  the  seas  keeping  the  feast. 
Follow  it  as  it  swings  across  the  broad  Atlantic,  until 
the  morning  sun  lights  up  the  bold  headlands  of 
the  Western  world.  High  over  the  waves,  with  its 
brilliant  beacon  light  of  welcome,  towers  the  famous 
monument  of  Liberty.  But  when  we  land  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  we  find  that  there  is  another 
monument  of  Liberty.  The  city  is  dominated  by 
a  far  higher  and  grander  monument  —  a  monument 
telling  of  true  liberty.  Erected  to  the  liberty  of 
God,  it  is  a  mighty  monument  worthy  of  the  mighty 
continent  on  which  it  stands;  a  monument  built  by 
the  efforts  of  the  poor  exiled  Irish.  What  is  this 
monument?  It  is  a  glorious  white  marble  pile,  with 
twin  spires  flinging  the  cross  of  Christ  high  in  the 
heavens  —  the  stately  cathedral  well  worthy  of  its 
name,  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Patrick. 

In  the  early  morning  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  we 
hear  the  rush  of  hurrying  feet,  and  crowds  — 
shamrock  on  breast  —  fill  this  immense  cathedral. 
The  organ  thunders  with  triumphant  peal,  and  the 
strains  of  the  well-remembered  hymn  "  Hail,  glori- 

[i77] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

ous  St.  Patrick  "  fill  the  air,  reviving  memories  of 
bogland  and  mountain  glen,  of  cornfield  and  green 
boreen,  of  past  St.  Patrick's  days;  and  the  exile, 
kneeling  with  closed  eyes  and  streaming  cheeks, 
pours  forth  his  soul  in  prayer  of  thanksgiving  to 
God. 

And  as  the  westward-rushing  sun  drives  back  the 
night,  everywhere  it  is  the  same.  In  railroad  car 
and  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  mighty  river,  in 
populous  town  and  lonely  forest,  frozen  north  and 
tropic  south,  we  see  the  Irish  hastening  in  their  mil- 
lions to  pay  homage  to  God  and  to  their  saint. 

Across  the  continent  we  sweep  on  the  wings  of  the 
dawn,  and  as  it  lights  up  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Pacific,  St.  Patrick's  Day  has  dawned  among  the 
wondrously  beautiful  islands  that  lie  sleeping  under 
the  Southern  Cross. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  snow-capped  moun- 
tain chains  of  New  Zealand,  from  the  lonely  gully 
and  the  primeval  forest,  march  the  exiles. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  the  Dominion  they  gather 
in  the  splendid  cathedrals  and  churches  they  have 
built,  glorious  witnesses  to  the  vitality  of  their  faith. 
There  at  the  very  ends  of  the  earth  they  sing  the 
praises  of  St.  Patrick. 

Across  the  Tasman  sea  we  swing,  and  in  the  dawn 
the  long  spreading  plains  of  Australia  lie  before 
us,  dotted  with  hurrying  crowds.  At  its  southern 
point,  a  great  cathedral  towers  high  above  Mel- 
bourne, the  queen  city  of  the  south.     This  cathe- 

[178] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

dral  is  the  first  object  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  heart- 
sore  exile  as  his  ship  glides  towards  the  shore,  and 
the  sound  of  its  name  as  it  passes  from  lip  to  lip 
causes  his  heart  to  beat  with  joy,  and  lifts  the  feeling 
of  exile  and  strangeness  that  oppresses  him,  for  it  is 
the  grand  old  familiar  name  —  St.  Patrick. 

Look  to  the  north!  Nestling  amid  the  yellow 
corn,  half  hidden  by  the  bending  eucalyptus;  high 
upon  the  towering  mountains;  standing  in  the  lowly 
valleys  —  everywhere, —  church  after  church,  con- 
vent after  convent,  school  after  school,  meet  our 
gaze,  and  among  them,  strong  as  the  adamantine 
hills,  stand  the  guardian  cathedrals. 

On  the  bold  headland  that  guards  the  beautiful 
harbor  of  Sydney,  looking  seawards,  stands  the 
premier  seminary  of  the  lands  of  the  Southern  Cross 
—  St.  Patrick's,  Manly. 

As  we  look,  from  Torres  to  Tasmania,  the  bells 
ring  out  to  welcome  the  day,  and  in  their  hundreds 
of  thousands  the  Irish  gather  round  the  tabernacles. 

Out  across  the  continent  to  the  land  of  gold  — 
Western  Australia,  it  is  the  same  story.  Across 
Asia,  across  Africa  —  everywhere,  we  find  an  un- 
ending succession  of  altars  erected  by  the  Irish  to 
enthrone  God  among  men,  and  each  surrounded  by 
an  adoring  multitude.  A  marvelous  multiplication 
of  the  Mass  Rock! 

For  twenty-four  hours  the  earth  has  echoed  with 
unceasing  prayer  to  God  through  St.  Patrick!  The 
whole  round  world  stood  in  amazement  and  won- 

[179] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

dered  at  the  chorus  of  praise  that  rang  from  east  to 
west  and  from  pole  to  pole,  for  on  St.  Patrick's  Day 
the  tramp  of  the  Irish  shakes  the  world! 

With  her  glorious  past,  and  a  present  of  such  mag- 
nificent strength  and  promise,  who  dare  deny  that 
this  prediction  of  Ireland's  future  be  too  bold: 

"  Many  a  race 
Shrivelling  in  sunshine  of  its  prosperous  years, 
Shall  cease  from  faith,  and,  shamed  though  shameless,  sink 
Back  to  its  native  clay;  but  over  thine 
God  shall  extend  the  shadow  of  His  Hand, 
And  through  the  night  of  centuries  teach  to  her 
In  woe  that  song  which,  when  the  nations  wake, 
Shall  sound  their  glad  deliverance; 

But  nations  far,  in  undiscovered  seas, 
Her  stately  progeny,  while  ages  fleet, 
Shall  wear  the  kingly  ermine  of  her  Faith, 
Fleece  uncorrupted  of  the  Immaculate  Lamb, 
Forever;  lands  remote  shall  raise  to  God 
Her  fanes;  and  eagle-nurturing  isles  hold  fast 
Her  hermit  cells:  thy  nation  shall  not  walk 
Accordant  with  the  Gentiles  of  this  world, 
But  as  a  race  elect  sustain  the  Crown 
Or  bear  the  Cross." 

Nearly  300  years  ago  a  Nuncio  sent  to  Ireland  by 
the  Pope  wrote  these  words  to  Rome : 

"  Ireland  may  yet  become  an  outwork  of  the  Faith 
to  Europe  and  its  herald  to  America." 

[180] 


TRIUMPH  OF  IRELAND 

Could  that  Nuncio  have  seen  what  we  have  just 
seen  on  our  journey  round  the  world,  he  would  write 
to-day  : 

"  Ireland  HAS  become  an  outwork  of  the  Faith 
to  Europe,  has  been  and  is  its  herald  to  America, 
and  Africa,  and  Asia,  and  Australia  —  aye,  to  the 
whole  world." 

Whether  kneeling  in  little  mountain  chapel  at 
home,  or  in  splendid  cathedral  abroad,  whether  liv- 
ing in  peace  in  his  cottage,  or  defending  his  country 
at  the  battle-front,  the  Irishman  fearlessly  stands  be- 
fore the  whole  world,  and  unhesitatingly  proclaims 
that  his  greatest  pride  and  his  greatest  glory  is  the 
heritage  that  was  given  him  by  St.  Patrick  —  our 
Holy  Catholic  Faith. 

And  this  triumph  is  hers  because  of  her  recogni- 
tion and  adoration  of  Emmanuel,  the  Sacred  Pres- 
ence. The  child  of  Erin  ever  moves  in  the  world 
lit  by  the  light  of  the  tabernacle.  To  him  the  tab- 
ernacle is  everything.  It  is  the  crib;  the  Holy 
House  of  Nazareth;  the  Holy  Land  where  Christ 
does  good;  the  Supper  Room;  the  Calvary  whereon 
He  is  sacrificed  for  us.  Scarce  is  he  born  than  he  is 
carried  to  the  tabernacle  to  be  enrolled  as  a  subject 
of  God  by  the  sign  of  baptism.  Before  it,  at  the 
altar,  he  kneels  to  receive  from  his  bishop  the  soldier 
sign  of  confirmation;  at  the  same  altar  he  receives 
holy  communion.  Beneath  the  hallowed  roof  that 
shelters  it  he  comes  from  the  wild  surge  of  earth 

[181] 


THE  SOUL  OF  IRELAND 

with  its  passion  and  pride,  and  sin  and  sorrow.  It 
lifts  the  shadow  of  sin  from  him  in  the  comforting 
confessional.  When  he  finds  a  twin  soul,  he  comes 
to  the  tabernacle  with  her,  and  Christ  takes  the  two 
pure  hearts  in  His  Sacred  Hands  and  molds  them 
until  the  twain  are  one  in  the  sacrament  of  matri- 
mony. And  when  life  is  ended,  he  is  carried  to  the 
tabernacle  to  be  laid  before  God  for  the  last  time. 

Here  we  have  the  reason  why  Ireland  is  Ireland, 
and  why  Ireland  will  always  be  Ireland.  She  has 
triumphed  because  she  has  fought  on  in  the  path 
St.  Patrick  has  marked  out  for  her!  It  is  a  path 
often  rugged  and  painful,  a  path  crimsoned  by  the 
blood  and  watered  by  the  tears  of  countless  genera- 
tions of  Irish  hearts;  but  a  path  that  has  never 
swerved  from  the  straight  line  of  honor  and  holi- 
ness; a  path  that  leads  straight  to  where  St.  Patrick 
and  greatest  Ireland  stand,  rejoicing  in  the  fruition 
of  their  triumph. 


THE    END 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


[182] 


Date  Due 

II 1M 

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JUN 

I  b  Zuu/ 

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